


Aftermath

by Calenheniel



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Modern Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 22,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calenheniel/pseuds/Calenheniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Hans x Elsa; modern A/U.] He was her sister’s fiancé, then; but he wanted her, and Elsa wanted to let someone in—and now, he’s a stranger, but she can’t leave, because she needs him.</p><p>She was engaged to the perfect guy, then; but he wasn’t perfect, and Anna was betrayed—and now, she’s with a man who cares, but she can’t understand why he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scene 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this story quite furiously over the past two weeks, and as you'll see from the format below, each scene ranges from 1-3 pages, and there is, at this point, a total of 31 scenes. Each scene will be from either Elsa or Anna's POV, and takes place in the vague time periods of "now" or "then." All the scenes are also not in chronological order—so by the time this is complete, you guys can have fun piecing them all back together. The ships dealt with in this fic include Kristanna, Helsa, and some Hanna as well.

**Scene 1: Elsa, now**

_She loves him._

She's staring at the freckles on his back from the bed, and even though he's left the door open,  _again,_ she's not cold like she should be.

There's something soothing about the sharp planes of his shoulders, his arms, his waist—something  _familiar_  that she always latches onto, even when she remembers that she hardly knows him at all.

She's tempted to say something typical, like "come back to bed, Hans," or "aren't you getting cold out there?", but there's no point, since he wouldn't reply to her, anyway.

She recalls a time when he used to stay with her after he finished—many times, really—but it's been so long that she's forgotten what it's like to have his warmth pressed up against her while she's sleeping, to feel his deep, quiet breathing tickle the nape of her neck.

Now, the closest she can get to him is this—watching him from the bed and drinking in his figure as it leans on the railing of the balcony of the hotel room, dressed only in loose black sweatpants, his torso and feet bare, his auburn hair rustled by the breeze.

It would almost be sensuous, she thinks, if he were looking at her; but he hasn't looked at her, not  _really,_  not since then—and she hasn't at him, either, not since he left Anna, and lied to her—lied to  _both_  of them.

She can hear his lies ringing in her ears even then, like an alarm, warning her,  _screaming_  at her to  _get out already_ —and why is she still there, why isn't she moving, when everyone else has already  _run away?_

But she can't—she knows she can't—because she loves him.


	2. Scene 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should clarify: the "then" scenes are out of chronological order, but the "now" scenes are not - they represent a "live" sequence of events, so to speak. Hope that clears things up.

**Scene 2: Anna, then**

_The first time she saw him._

The first time she saw him, he was standing on the balcony, staring at the moon.

He easily stood out from everyone else at the party—for one thing, he wasn't dressed up, even though it was supposed to be '80s themed—and even though he was wearing a black suit, and his hair, from what she could tell, was a dark red, he just … seemed to  _glow._

It was the first frat party she'd ever been to, and she'd been slightly wary going in, after hearing horror stories from Elsa about what happened to innocent, bright-eyed freshman girls like her at those sorts of things.

But she'd spent so  _long_ away from people, and away from this kind of life, that she'd ignored all those warnings, and stories, and  _tales,_ because she just wanted to see what it was like for herself.

It quickly became apparent, though, that everyone at the party had "pre-gamed" before arriving (or at least that's what she guessed, based on what little she knew)—and that some of them already knew her by her reputation, "Princess Anna," the baby sister of the infamous "Ice Queen Elsa" who'd graduated just a few months earlier—so she'd had to dodge a few leering stares, awkward pick-up lines, and  _wandering_  hands by the time she came across him there, leaning on the railing, his eyes like bright emeralds.

She was too stunned by the sight of him, at first, to say anything at all; somehow, it didn't help that a few of the frat brothers came by every so often and tapped him on the shoulder, or gave him a light punch, and he returned their drunken shouts with a smirk that set her cheeks on  _fire_.

He looked older, though, than them—not by much, but enough to set off her curiosity (not that that was  _particularly_ hard to do)—but before she'd been able to muster up the courage to say something, she was suddenly  _shoved_ right into him when another girl pushed past her to get to the drinks.

She was mortified as they disentangled themselves from one another, and she apologised,  _profusely,_ just hoping to make a quick getaway before he saw how red her face was.

But then, unexpectedly, he  _smiled_ at her—and there was a warmth to it that took her aback completely.

 _You must be a first year,_ he said with that same smile, and she wondered if her swallowing was as obvious as it felt when she nodded, her hands curling together in front of her like Elsa's always did.

 _Is this your first frat party?_ he asked her, and she nodded again, biting her lip as she was wont to do, and finally gripped the railing, trying to ignore the inebriated partygoers that nearly ran into her again as she told him it was, and that she didn't know what to expect, really—but that this was a little  _much._

He chuckled at that, making her shudder at the heat that rose in her throat, because the sound of his laughter was, actually,  _lovely_ —but saying that out loud, let alone to someone she'd just  _met,_ was probably too forward … even for her.

 _Hans,_ he offered her a hand, and she took it, telling him her name; and when he stared at her in silence, she looked at him sheepishly, and clarified that, well, her last name is  _Andersen,_ but really, she's just  _Anna._

" _Just" Anna?_

He wore a wondering look, and that made her a little uncomfortable—but then he smiled again, and her anxiousness melted away, and he went on as if she  _hadn't_ just told him that she was one of the daughters of the biggest private equity firms in Arendelle.

_Well, "just" Anna—it's nice to meet you._

She couldn't help but smile back at that, and then she asked, automatically, what about  _him—_ but before he could reply, another brother came by and smacked him hard on the shoulder, shouting  _Hey, Westergard! Get room service to bring up more drinks, would you?_ with a good-natured guffaw—and he grinned absently at the half-joking command.

It took her a minute to connect the dots; that name,  _his_ name, sounded so familiar.

She glanced up above them, then to her side, where there was an empty cup resting on a napkin, a napkin with the fleur-de-lis seal of the hotel emblazoned on it, and the hotel's name was—

Her eyes widened and her mouth went slightly ajar when she asked him, and he sighed.

 _Yes, I'm the same—Hans Westergard of The Westergard Hotels. It's not_ mine, _though, or anything._

She couldn't help but ask him more about it, though she feared that he was probably tired of people badgering him about the family business, or sharing some trite anecdote or story about a crazy weekend they spent in one of the hotels.

To her surprise, though, he was pleasant about it— _cheerful,_ even, as he told her that  _they're just having me trained at this branch as a manager for a while, since I went to college here_ —and she realised, with a new kind of delight that tied her stomach in knots, that he was the first guy she'd ever talked to so easily, and who was just as interested in her as she was him, and not just for her  _money._

He told her more about himself: that he had  _twelve older brothers, and not the nicest guys either, if I'm being honest;_ that they all were involved, in some way or another, with the family business; and that he'd been a brother of the fraternity hosting the current party when he was in college (which she'd figured out on her own), but he'd already been in the working world for over two years by then, and so once in a while, he helped them organise their socials—like lending them a room in  _The Westergard_ , for example.

She soaked in the details like a sponge, fascinated by each and every one—so much so that when he suddenly asked her  _What are you majoring in?,_ she pinked, not expecting him to ask  _her_  anything, and admitted, with embarrassment, that she was still undeclared.

And how  _strange_  that must seem to him, she thought, since her older sister was the paradigm of studiousness and beauty and intelligence and had known what she'd wanted to do  _months_ before she'd even applied to college, but  _she_ was just—

 _It's all right, Anna—it's_ good  _to be different from your sister, anyway, isn't it?_

She was mute with silence at that for a while, and then she stared at him—probably for too long, since he eventually laughed at her wide eyes, breaking the spell, and she noticed, for the first time, the freckles dotting his cheeks, just like hers—but he didn't seem to mind, or get bored, because there was a beautiful kind of  _understanding_ in his green eyes.

(And when he asked her for her number a few minutes later, she was sure, at least, that she wasn't annoying him.)


	3. Scene 3

**Scene 3: Elsa, then**

_He wanted to know more about her._

_Hello, Elsa._

A chill ran down her spine when she heard his voice—but it wasn't grating and  _horrible_ like she hoped it would be, and so she frowned at him, carefully placing the book she'd been perusing back on the shelf.

She asked him if he followed her there; the possibility set her on edge, since that library was far from the city, far from the people they knew or any  _others_ who wanted to document her every move and plaster it all over the internet, and she was wary that even that one, safe place outside of her room at home was being  _invaded_.

_Don't flatter yourself. I was just meeting a client who lives nearby—_

And then he just  _happened_ to find himself in that  _particular_  library, afterwards?

She snorted at the idea, crossing her arms, her eyes darting back and forth to make sure no one was passing by, or  _listening_ —because these days, it seemed like someone always was.

_Awfully suspicious, aren't we?_

She pointed out that he didn't seem like the academic type, and he smirked—that awful,  _infuriating_ little thing.

_Don't judge a book by its cover,_ he replied, and she scowled, asking him for what seemed the millionth time (even though it was only the first) what he was doing there, in  _that_ place.

_I could ask_ you _the same thing,_ he retorted, and that made her bite her tongue for at least a second, even if she didn't want to.

In her silence, he relented.  _All right, you want the truth? I was seeing a client in the area, and then when the meeting finished and I was driving back to the city, I saw you go in here._

He ran a hand through his hair, and she found herself mildly distracted by how smooth it looked, even under the fluorescent lights.

_So yes—I did follow you here. Sort of._

She was irritated with the fact that anything about him could  _distract_ her, so she snapped at him—snapped that she wasn't going to drop everything she was doing just because he'd decided to  _grace_ her with his presence.

_What_ are  _you doing, anyway?_

He looked pointedly at her, and her face reddened—and she wished that she weren't so  _twisted up_ over the intensity of his eyes when she scathingly replied that she was  _obviously_ reading.

_Yes, I can see that—I meant_ what  _are you reading?_ He took the books from her arms, and she tried to protest, but he just went on.  _"Form, Space and Order"; "Fundamentals of Building Construction"; "The Dynamics of Architectural Form"—you interested in this stuff?_

She finally managed to tear her gaze away from his, directing it at the ground, at her shuffling feet, as she told him she was just studying it for fun, that's all.

_Seems like a pretty advanced book for someone who's just studying it for "fun."_ He paused, and his eyebrow quirked up, contemptuous  _knowing_ stitched into it.

_This wouldn't have anything to do with your plans to travel …_ south, _would it?_

She glared at him for that, because it wasn't his business—but he only drew closer, and retorted  _then maybe you shouldn't have told me_ —and she cut him off before he could continue, practically spitting at him that he should just forget about what she said already, because it wasn't as if she were  _actually_ planning on going anywhere anymore, so he couldn't use that information to blackmail her, or whatever  _else_ he had planned.

Blackmail  _you? Honestly, Elsa—what kind of person do you think I am?_

If it had come out of anyone else's mouth, she might have believed the wounded tone. From him, though, it just sounded like disingenuous  _bullshit,_ and she made that much clear—made it clear that she thought he was a  _gold digger_ from the very start, and the fact that he'd  _lied_ to her when they first met, that he  _pretended_ as if he didn't know who she was, only reinforced that impression.

_Was I under some kind of_ obligation  _to tell you that I knew you?_ He scoffed, raising an eyebrow.  _And if you think I'm a_ "gold digger,"  _then you obviously don't know me at_ all _._

And she didn't have any  _intention_ of getting to know him, either.

_Well, that's a shame. After all—I want to know more about_ you.

She blinked at that, and asked him why before she'd even processed what he said—before she understood what he  _meant._

_Well, for one thing, we're going to be family soon—_

She huffed at the suggestion, glowered at him—

— _and besides, I like you. No, let me amend that—I'm_ intrigued  _by you._

She felt the heat rise to her face before she had the sense to stop it, and she barely managed to ask him what he was  _talking_ about—

_Elsa, the "Ice Queen" no one ever sees, the introverted heiress to one of the biggest firms in the country—but who secretly wants to run off to some island and build houses for poor villagers, pursuing her dreams of becoming an architect—_

She felt sick listening to him—listening to his  _words,_ when he didn't know anything about her, no, nothing at  _all._

_I know enough to make some_ educated  _guesses,_ he said with a slow grin,  _and based on those—how could I_ not  _take an interest in you?_

She reminded him, once her skin was done  _boiling_ and she felt the blood start to leave her face, that he was  _engaged_ to her  _sister_ ; but he'd been just as dismissive of that as everything else  _(Your point being?),_ so she took the blunter route, and told him more harshly that he shouldn't have been there, talking to her like that.

_Like what, Elsa?_

She swallowed, and said he should leave, because she couldn't think of anything else to say—of anything else to make him  _stop._

_As you wish_.

He bowed, and the bow was strangely formal, and  _gentlemanly;_  then, unexpectedly, he brushed a hand over her bare shoulder—over her freckles—and he left, just as she asked him to, not another word spoken between them.

But when she was alone again, she shuddered, and she didn't understand why her stomach felt hot and tight.


	4. Scene 4

**Scene 4: Anna, now**

_She doesn't trust him._

She's horrible to Kristoff—she knows that.

Ever since they met, she's been pushing him away, even though she knows, instinctively, that he's not a bad person, or a liar.

(But maybe that's part of the problem, since she doesn't  _trust_ her own instincts anymore, not when it comes to people—and  _especially_ not when it comes to guys.)

And that's only reinforced, she thinks bitterly, by everyone around her—by the other rich  _brats_ on campus who've made her a pariah, a veritable  _legend_ as Anna Andersen, the rich girl who got fucked and chucked by the whipping boy of the Southern Isles and her own  _sister_ —and even by the people who helped raise her, who now look at her, no,  _stare_ at her in judgment every day, shaking their heads, wondering how she could have been so  _blind._

He's not like them, not in the least; he's blunt, and honest, so  _painfully_ honest that it makes her, contradictorily, even  _more_  suspicious of him, because sometimes even the people who say "I love you" and "I would never shut you out" are also the ones who say "I've been searching my whole life to find my own place" (and what they mean is their own place in a  _giant pile of her money,_  or between her sister's legs).

It doesn't help that he's just a cab driver in a big city, hardly making ends meet, so even if she  _wanted_ to let him in—and she  _doesn't,_ she thinks with a frown—it's hard to believe that he's really interested in her for anything besides her inheritance, and sometimes she wishes he would just tell her that that's the real reason he hangs out with her.

After all, their "friendship" (if you could  _call_ it that, which she didn't know if she could) had begun in the strangest way—her curled up on the curb with a red face and tear tracks down her cheeks, staring at the pavement accusingly, him standing above her, his shadow enveloping her, asking if she was all right—and it only continues to be strange, and obviously one-sided, since she's just using him, isn't she? Using him to complain to, to take out everything on—even though she knows he's not built for that, because he's a quiet guy, and he doesn't like people much (and she's starting to see why, after everything that's happened).

But he never tells her what she wants to hear—and maybe there's a part of her that resents him for it, because without that explanation, she has nothing.


	5. Scene 5

**Scene 5: Elsa, then**

_She met him in the hotel lobby._

She always  _hated_ parties, and that one was no exception.

It was her first time at  _The Westergard, _a fact which seemed to shock everyone, given who she was and the  _expectations_ those kinds of empty socialites had of others from their ilk.

To her, though, it looked and felt like any other big, chain hotel of its kind—spacious rooms, red-carpeted hallways with tall ceilings, elevators lined with enough mirrors to make a person  _cringe_ at their own reflection—and so she wasn't quite sure how it had become the  _locale_   _du rigueur_ for these sorts of social gatherings, nor how she had managed to end up there in the first place.

Naturally, then, she was having a miserable time, since meeting people and "rubbing elbows" (or just touching at all) had never really been something she was comfortable doing, and it didn't take long before she snuck off down to the lobby bar, hoping, perhaps futilely, that whatever drink the bartender was pouring her would at least  _calm her down_.

She was three drinks in—or maybe four, her memory was pretty hazy by then—when she first saw him passing through the lobby,  _observing._

It was obvious that he was some kind of hotel employee—a manager, probably, from the looks of his sharp suit and smiling, polite manners—but he caught her attention nonetheless, if only because, she absently realised, that he was good-looking.

No,  _handsome—_ that was the better word, on second thought.

He must have caught her staring at some point, because his eyes suddenly met hers—but she didn't immediately turn away like she usually did, and in retrospect, she blamed the alcohol for that.

_I guess you're from the event upstairs?_

She didn't really want to answer the question, but she was more surprised that he was asking it in the first place—and when he took a seat next to her, ordering a drink for himself, she knew that she didn't have much of a choice, and admitted that she was.

_No wonder you're down here, then._

She blinked at that, because it wasn't what she had expected at all—and wasn't the normal thing to  _introduce yourself_  when you meet someone new, and ask how the market was treating your firm, and what kinds of new ventures you're looking into?—and her mouth was slightly ajar while he sipped his drink, managing to say, in a small voice, that she just didn't like parties much.

 _Not even for the free booze?_ he asked, smirking, and she immediately disliked the expression, though she didn't know why.

(There was something too  _familiar_ about it, she supposed.)

She couldn't understand, more to the point, how he hadn't recognised her by then—because didn't  _everyone_ recognise her, the "Ice Queen"?—but her head felt light and heavy all at once, and thinking was a chore, so she shrugged, and swirled the ice around in her empty glass, telling him that no amount of free booze was worth having to put up with  _those people._

He chuckled at that, and she decided that, unlike his smirk, his chuckle could stay.

 _I can understand that,_ he sympathised, a weary smile on his lips.  _I'm in the hotel business, after all._

She presumed that it was even worse for him, and wondered aloud how he could put up with rude guests, day in and day out, without going insane; he admitted it wasn't easy, but he didn't have any other options—not coming from  _his_ family, anyway.

The bitter look on his face reminded her so much of herself, then, that she blurted out how she felt the same—how she didn't want to inherit her father's firm, or major in economics, because it was just so damn  _boring,_ most of the time—but she cut herself short when she realised how much she'd told him, a total  _stranger,_ and her face turned red.

He, however, just looked curious _._

 _What do you_ want  _to do, then?_

Her lips pressed tightly together, and she gripped her glass so hard that if it had been a movie, she was sure it would have shattered in her grasp by then, the shards making her skin bleed.

She wanted to go south—go  _anywhere_ else, really—just  _get away_ from everything.

He was quiet for a while, and then his lips started to move, and she was  _mesmerised_ by them; but before he could answer, someone from  _that event upstairs_ found her, lightly chiding her for disappearing,  _as_   _usual,_ and dragged her away without so much as an apology to the man sitting near her at the bar.

And then she was in one of those  _awful_ elevators again, staring blearily at her reflection while her acquaintance noisily prattled on about something in the background—but as she stared, something occurred to her, and her blue eyes closed, a frown curling on her lips.

She hadn't even gotten his name.


	6. Scene 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out some great fanart for the fic on my tumblr: www.calenheniel.tumblr.com/frozen

**Scene 6: Anna, then**

_She introduced him to her sister._

Elsa, Hans.

Hans, Elsa.

She'd had everything planned out before the "big night," as she was mentally calling it, even though that probably would have sounded dumb to a normal person—it wasn't as though she was getting  _married,_ or anything—but she knew how anxious Elsa was about meeting new people, and how she hated crowds, and so she'd brought Hans over to their house, asking Gerda if she could make something special for dinner, just for the three of them.

It was a genius plan, really: it simultaneously a) showed Hans around the house, b) introduced him to her only living family, and c) forced Elsa to come out of her room, at least for an  _hour_.

At least, that was what she  _thought._

In reality, things were awkward from the start—there was something odd about the way they looked at each other when they first met, both their eyes going a little wide, and both quieter for longer than seemed normal—but then Hans introduced himself with his big, charming smile, and Elsa refrained from shaking his hand, and all seemed right with the world again.

It wasn't as if it were a  _new_ thing, anyway, for Elsa to be so stiff, and  _cold;_ still, it bothered her that even on such a momentous occasion as meeting her younger sister's  _first boyfriend ever_  for the first time,she was so standoffish, and said so little during dinner, even when gently prompted and prodded.

The only thing that even  _slightly_ piqued her sister's interest was when she brought up the fact that she was surprised that Elsa hadn't met Hans before, since he went to the same college and was only a couple years above her.

Actually, Hans admitted hearing about Elsa (because who  _hadn't_ heard of the "Ice Queen," really?) and seeing her around campus from time to time, though they'd never actually spoken—and when he said that, she thought she saw Elsa's face go a dark,  _angry_ red for a brief moment before returning to its normal pallor, and then she simply remarked that  _our school is_ huge,  _Anna—I didn't even know most of the people in_ my  _year, let alone_ his.

But that was her sister, she guessed with a sigh, and Hans reassured her, later that same evening, that  _I don't mind, honestly—she probably just had a bad day._

She frowned at that, and told him, irritably, that if that were true, then  _every_ day was a bad day for Elsa; but, realising how nasty that sounded, she flushed, and apologised, and was just glad that her sister hadn't heard that.

Another part of her, though, wished that Elsa  _had_ been there—and that she  _had_ heard it.


	7. Scene 7

**Scene 7: Elsa, now**

_She wonders if it was worth it._

_2pm—North Mt._

She wasn't expecting a text from him—not during a  _meeting,_ anyway—and she swipes it away, pretending to pay attention as she shoves her phone back in her pocket, her eyes as impassive as ever.

She keeps that mask on for the rest of the afternoon, and takes a late lunch; that's what she tells her associates, anyway, before she gets into her car, and drives—drives as if it's not her, but some other force that's controlling her, propelling her forward.

She glances at her phone from time to time, though there's no point, since he only ever texts once.

She entertains the idea of just stopping the car, making a U-turn, going back to the office—there're plenty of reasons to do it, not the least of which is the possibility that by doing this, and  _texting_ him, she's making it more and more likely that her phone will get hacked at some point, and then everyone will know that  _she's still seeing him_ —but once she's been set in motion, she knows she can't turn back.

 _The North Mountain—_ that's the unofficial name of her parents' old condo where they used to go sometimes for a weekend away from her and Anna. That's fitting, she thinks with a hard grimace, considering what she uses it for now.

And who she's—no,  _they—_ are escaping from when they go there.

It's a change of scenery from her apartment, and from his; she still isn't used to living on her own yet, because everything about it feels foreign and out of place and  _bleak_ compared to the comfortable familiarity of her room at home.

(Not that it's "her room" anymore, of course—for all she knows, Anna could have had it bulldozed over several times by now.)

It's not safe, anyway, going to those places—they'd almost been caught out by the paparazzi recently when they thought it would be clear, late at night—and so they've had to find other ways, other quiet corners to hide their shame, or at least hide  _hers._

She wonders, then, if it was all worth it—breaking Anna's heart, and her own—but as she steps through the door and he roughly pushes her up against it, savagely kissing her while his hands hike up her skirt, she stops wondering.

Because now she's  _feeling_ , and feeling is always easier than thinking.


	8. Scene 8

**Scene 8: Anna, now**

_She doesn't understand him._

She thinks back on that "first meeting" between Hans and Elsa with a snort, realising how  _obvious_ it is, now, that they had already been acquainted in some way—hell, for all she knew, they might've already been  _sleeping_ together, by then—and Kristoff naturally gives her a curious look.

"What's wrong?"

She blows off the question, as usual.

"It's nothing," she says dismissively, but her lips are set in a grim way, and he frowns at her—frowns in just the same way he does at  _most_ of the things she says, actually—and once again, she finds herself unable to comprehend why he's there with her.

After all, she's not  _paying_ him to spend time with her, or sleeping with him, or even just  _holding hands_ —so when she sees him frowning like that, she matches his expression, though hers is a few shades darker.

"You're doing it again," he reminds her, leaning tensely over his knees. His brow quirks up. "You'll feel better if you just  _say_ what's on your mind."

She snorts in derision. "Like  _you_ would know. Wasn't your best friend growing up a  _reindeer,_ or something like that?" She sneers, unkindly. "I don't think you're one to talk."

He looks embarrassed, but also upset—and his cheeks are hot as he answers.

"You don't have to be such an  _asshole_ about it, Anna. I'm just trying to—to  _help."_

She scowls. "Just go home," she tells him, and crosses her arms, only mildly aware of how childish she looks.

He grunts in annoyance at her, and stands up, staring down at her still seated on the bench in the park.

"Fine," he says, "I'm  _going."_

When she hears him start the cab back up, and then the wheels squeak as it goes into reverse, she's annoyed to realise that her stomach hurts—and that she knows  _why_ it hurts, and that it has nothing to do with the fact that she ate an entire box of truffles a few hours ago out of spite when Kristoff told her she shouldn't.

Instead, it has to do with that  _frown_ —and how it shows up right below his big, stupid nose whenever she's not telling him something, or lying to him outright—and she can't fathom how he could wear it, and put up with her, especially when no one else does.

And she can't understand why he cares, since no one else ever has.


	9. Scene 9

**Scene 9: Elsa, then**

_He asked her about the pills._

She asked if they could stop by her office, briefly, on their way to his place—she realised she'd forgotten her file on the firm's latest acquisition in the second-to-lowest drawer—and he agreed where he might have been wary before, though he said he had a headache.

She went to go get him something for it—the aspirin from the common room above the shared fridges—and brought it back, but when she walked through the door he was just  _standing_ there, holding the orange bottle with the white cap in his hand, and her stomach dropped.

 _Since when have you been taking_ these?

Her face was pale, and her fingers trembled around the aspirin bottle, staring at him blankly.

That's—she didn't know what to say, until she decided to tell the truth. She'd been taking them for years, more so after her parents died … but really, for  _years._

 _Does Anna know?_ he asked, and she bristled a little at hearing her sister's name coming from his lips, since they had an  _agreement—_ but of  _course_ Anna didn't know.

He frowned at her.

 _Don't you think it's something she_ should  _know?_

She frowned back—why  _should_ she know anything? She didn't need Anna worrying about her—

 _You're_ seriously  _going to make that argument right now?_

Her brows knitted—she didn't understand.

 _She's_  always _worrying about you, Elsa—about why you're so closed-off, why you never tell her what's wrong, why you always hide from her—and that's_ without _knowing about_ these.

Her skin was blistering again, though her fingers were white from how firmly they were pressing themselves into the sides of the aspirin bottle,  _shaking_. Anna was better off not knowing—because not knowing meant one less thing for her to  _worry_  about.

 _You should talk to her,_ he said quietly, raising his eyes to hers, green to blue.

A vein of spite cut across her teeth as she bared them at him— _he_ was one to talk.

 _I've probably talked to her more in the past_ two months  _than you have in your entire_ life _._

Rage, pure and brittle and  _hateful,_ spilled out of her lips, made her spit at him— _fuck you_.

 _You were going to,_ he reminded her, and she could have screamed, then, if she weren't so aware of their surroundings.

He was an  _unbelievable_  prick.

 _So I've been told,_ he shrugged, but he didn't smirk, thank  _God,_ and his mouth even dipped into a serious sort of expression.  _Do they even help?_

Why did it matter to him? One minute he was fucking her on his desk at home, his hand on her throat, his fingers tugging on her hair—and the next he's pretending to care?

She wanted him to give back the pills to her—even if they didn't work most of the time, they're  _hers,_ and he didn't need to understand that.

 _What are you even_ saying,  _Elsa? You're taking some pretty serious drugs, and they don't even_ work?  _That's pretty_ fucked up.

She drew closer, her lips twisted in contempt, just the way he liked them—he was only there for one thing, anyway.

_And what would that be?_

She grabbed him through his pants, and pulled; he groaned, his cheeks pinking, but she only eyed him disdainfully. She wasn't wrong about him, was she?

_That's—that's not fair, Elsa._

She scowled, shoved him away, told him to get out.

He squared his shoulders, glared at her, but his cheeks were still  _flush_ with desire.

 _Your wish is my goddamn_   _command,_ Your Majesty.

He shoved the bottle back in her hands, and stalked off back to the car—and when he was gone, she threw it against the wall, and grit her teeth so hard she thought they might break.


	10. Scene 10

**Scene 10: Anna, then**

_The night he proposed to her._

He told her he had something special planned for them—just the two of them—but that it was a surprise, so he couldn't give away any details.

She had tried to force them out of him, of course, through tickling, tackling, wrestling, kissing,  _touching_ —but Hans could be unnervingly tight-lipped when he wanted to be, and so she'd finally relented after a few days of pestering him about it (though she'd still eyed him suspiciously every so often, reminding him that eventually, she  _was_  going to find out what it was).

As it turned out, though, she was glad he hadn't said anything—because when he lifted his hands from her eyes, she blinked in wonder, and stared for what seemed like  _hours_.

There before her was the fjord under a perfect night sky, the aurora borealis hanging in it, moving,  _breathing;_ it might as well have been the edge of the world, or perhaps infinity, stretching out into the distance.

She was breathless as he led her to a private boat he'd rented—a simple rowboat, nothing more—and she was glad that he took over the oars, because she was still too distracted by the sky to understand the fact that now, they were on the water, and if she reached her hand down just a bit further, she could touch it.

_Have you ever seen it before?_ he asked with a wide smile, and she finally looked back at him, her eyes wide with amazement,  _genuine_ amazement, and she said she hadn't—not like  _that,_ anyway.

He let her gawk up at the green ribbons lighting up the stars for a few more minutes before she realised that she was probably being rude—after all, he'd gone to such lengths to arrange this very beautiful and romantic outing for them, and there she was, just  _staring_ —and she reddened sheepishly, asking him, suddenly, what was the occasion, actually?

He stopped rowing, and leaned in closer to her—close enough that she could see the sky reflected in his eyes, making them  _greener,_ and her cheeks got hot—and he started saying something about how the past month with her had been the best in his life, and he felt like—

_With you, I've found my place._

The rest of what he said blurred together in her mind—it was all very poetic, and soft, and beautiful, of course—and even though she desperately wanted to remember every word that fell from his perfect, pink lips, he'd pulled out a little velvet box at some point in his speech, and her eyes had been  _glued_ to it ever since.

She faintly heard him when he said it, above the sound of her heart  _drumming_ in her ears.

_Can I say something …_ crazy?

She nodded, barely.

_Will you marry me?_

Then, there was silence—blissful, quiet silence—and tears stung at her eyes, even as she grinned and asked if she could say something even crazier—

Yes.

It was more like a shriek, when she thought about it later; but she didn't care what she sounded like then, or looked like, just so long as she was in his arms—and so she  _pounced_ on him without warning, planting kisses all over his cheeks, and lips, and eyes, never noticing how the boat was dangerously tipping to the side, even though he tried to warn her between kisses.

And just like that, the boat turned over, taking them with it—or, more correctly,  _under_ it—and she shivered, not expecting the water to be  _that_ cold, and groped for his figure in the pitch blackness.

_It's all right, Anna—I'm here,_ he said as he grasped her searching hand in his—her left hand—and then he slipped the very wet ring on her finger, and kissed that hand with soaked lips, making her laugh through her chattering teeth.

She loved him; she was sure of that.

So she brought him down for a kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck to stay afloat, and smiled against his lips.


	11. Scene 11

**Scene 11: Elsa, then**

_He dropped the façade._

She was just getting off the bus when she ran into him—or, more to the point, when  _he_ stopped  _her_  along the sidewalk, stepping under the dim glow of the streetlamp, his eyes wide.

_Elsa?_

She tried not to make it  _too_ obvious that she was none-too-happy to see him, and so she said his name back—but without the  _wondering_ tone.

_You … were out, today?_

She wanted to just walk straight past him, be on her way; but he was Anna's  _fiancé_ now, so she had to be civil, and she answered with a straightforward  _yes._

_Well, it's late—let me walk you back._

She told him she was fine, and when he pressed her about it again, that it  _really_ wasn't necessary. She couldn't understand why he was being so insistent.

_Come on—Anna would_ kill _me if she knew I ran into you and let you walk alone at night, so—_

So what? That wasn't her concern, what her sister would do to him; actually, she thought, she rather enjoyed the idea of the two lovebirds having an  _argument,_ for once.

_Hey, wait a minute—is something wrong?_

She was getting an unpleasant look on her face—she couldn't help it, since he was starting to  _irritate_ her—and she said it was nothing, and would he just let her  _go?_

_Not until you tell me why you're so upset with me,_ he said, standing in her way, and she had to curl her lip down from drawing into a sneer.

She managed it just enough to lie, to tell him that she wasn't upset with him, if only so he would move out of the  _fucking_ way—

_Bullshit_.

She was so  _fed up_ with him, but she held it in,  _for_   _Anna's sake,_ and allowed herself to roll her eyes as she pushed past him, her heels clicking sharply against the ground, and muttered that he could believe what he wanted to believe.

_Honestly, what the hell is your_ problem, _Elsa? I've been nothing but nice since we met, but you've been colder than a block of_ ice _—_

What was her  _problem?_

She finally came to a  _grinding_ halt at that, and spun around on her heel, stabbing him with a vicious glare, and spat that  _he_ was her problem—because she didn't trust him, or like him, and she never bought his "Mr. Nice Guy" act for one damn  _second._

It felt good, even as her chest heaved from the effort, to say those things to him; but she wasn't expecting the silence that followed, nor the slow,  _cold_ grin that broke out over his features.

_Well, that doesn't matter much to me—since you're not the one I'm selling it to._


	12. Scene 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless you all. You're lovely. I hope you like this scene, too - it's Kristanna, but I'm quite fond of it. I guess I prefer a darker take on this pairing than the norm, though I'm curious to know how you guys feel about it.

**Scene 12: Anna, now**

_She's drunk, and he's not._

She stares down at her left ring finger, thinking that there should be something there, even though there hasn't been anything on it in ages—not for a few months, at least.

The music is  _blaring_ in the background, a multitude of too-bright colours dancing across her skin (which somehow glows sallow and pale under the lights), but she's trying to remember something: the joy she used to feel whenever she looked at that hand.

Now it's just a dull feeling of  _hate_ that courses through her at the sight—she can't muster the energy to be violently angry, like before—and she wishes, absently, that she could tear off that finger and throw it into the fjord like she did the ring.

She's tried to block that night on the boat from her memory, but it comes back to her at all the worst times, like right  _now,_  when Kristoff is asking her something—probably "are you okay?", since that seems to be his favourite phrase, when it comes to her—and she spins to meet his gaze, though the sudden movement makes bile rise in her throat.

"Anna—let me get you some water, all right?"

She still can't really hear him right, her vision blurred and hazy from the drinks she's been knocking back too quickly, but she can  _see_ him just fine, and she can see, clearly, that  _look_ on his face—those chocolate-coloured eyes soft with concern, his lips pressed together, his dark blonde bangs falling over the light sheen of sweat covering his forehead from the heat inside the bar—and she automatically feels a rush of resentment sweep through her, though it's tinged with a familiar sensation that settles at the bottom of her stomach like a pulse.

She frowns,  _deeply,_ and he touches her shoulder—whether to steady her or out of worry, she doesn't know—and then she grabs his face and kisses him,  _deeply._

He returns the kiss, at first; then, he pulls back in surprise, and holds her shoulders still, stopping her from trying to dive towards him again.

"Anna, you're—you're  _drunk,"_ he tells her even as he's blushing,  _hard,_ and his pupils are dilated just as wide as hers. "You're not thinking straight."

Whatever small pool of  _want_ that had briefly overtaken her dissipates, and she scowls as she stands from her chair and slaps away his hands, fuming.

"Don't  _fuck_ with me," she hisses, and stalks off, fully intending to walk home, even if it means getting soaked in the rain that's currently pouring down in buckets, the wind whipping at her face.

Of course, he follows her out—she probably should have expected as much from him—and his footsteps are heavy against the pavement, ringing in her ears.

"You can't just  _leave_ like that," he scolds her, but she doesn't stop walking, even though the rain is  _biting_ at her skin. "You won't make it back by yourself."

She  _grinds_ on her heel as she turns around.  _"Watch me,"_ she seethes petulantly, and ignores the stab of guilt that strikes her when she finally sees his furrowed brows, his frown, his crossed arms.

"At least let me give you a lift back," he reasons with her, reaching out to her—but she recoils from him, hugging herself, trying to gather her bearings against the rain falling sideways, hitting her skin like so many little knives.

"I don't get it,  _Kristoff,"_  she begins, and there's an edge to his name that she doesn't intend to have, but that comes out anyway, "I don't get why you're  _doing this_ when I just left you in front of all those people, and I treat you like  _dirt,_ and I—"

"Anna, I—"

He cuts her off, and his face is red—but it's a different kind of red than it was back in the bar, and now he's looking down at the ground, unable to meet her furious stare—and after a while of standing like that, she starts to wonder why he didn't continue.

Looking at him, though, she has an inkling of what he was going to say; and  _fear,_ cold and brittle, drips along her skin when she realises that she's not ready to hear something like that, because it's too much, too  _soon,_ and she can't bear to imagine the disappointment on his face when she tells him  _I can't._

But then, his shoulders slump in a defeated way—and that's unlike him, she thinks uneasily,  _guiltily_ —and he gestures to the parking lot.

"Come on—I'll drive you home," he murmurs, and she vaguely recalls that he said the same thing to her the first time they met, months ago, when she was in a fit of despair and he just happened to find her there, on the street corner, miles from home.

He walks off, knowing, somehow, that she'll follow him.

She does.


	13. Scene 13

**Scene 13: Elsa, now**

_She doesn't have_ that _Hans._

She knows he doesn't love her—she's known that since the beginning, really—but he's only making it clearer to her with every passing day just how  _much_ he doesn't.

It should bother her more than it does, but she also knows that he's only seeing  _her_  now, and that he only wants  _her_ —he's not kissing, or touching, or  _caressing_ Anna anymore, and that's enough, she thinks, to justify what she's doing.

But the jealousy is still there, green and poisonous and  _hateful,_ stewing at the pit of her stomach, rising and falling at the back of her throat, because even though she has him, she doesn't have the version of him that her sister did.

 _That_ Hans,  _Anna's_ Hans, was someone else entirely: kind, loving,  _gentle_.

 _Her_ Hans, however, is the real one: the one who told her he wasn't selling her anything and then did, the one who told her he would break her heart, the one who's breaking it even now.

Devious, scheming,  _cruel._

She remembers it so clearly then, the day everything fell apart—the day after Anna saw them, and found out, and then he told her what he'd  _really_ wanted from her, how it was all just about spite, and bitterness, and  _vengeance_ against his brothers for the things he'll never have—and it amazes her all the more that she's stayed with him from then until now, because she doesn't have expectations anymore, or even dreams of what could be.

Dreams that he will take her to the fjord, under the stars, present her with a ring—though even if he did, she wouldn't accept it.

Because she can't accept  _him._


	14. Scene 14

**Scene 14: Anna, then**

_She told Elsa about the engagement._

She wondered if Elsa could tell that there was something up.

She was fidgeting, after all—and yes, admittedly, she fidgeted a lot normally  _anyway—_ but that night, she had barely touched her food at all during dinner.

And when she didn't eat, that usually meant there was something wrong.

She glanced up every so often at her sister, primly cutting through her chicken breast with a knife and fork, occasionally meeting her eyes; finally, she gulped down some water, straightened her posture against the chair, and lifted her chin.

And then she said her sister's name.

_Yes?_

She had news—well, big, big,  _big_ news—to tell her.

_What is it?_

Elsa remembered …  _Hans,_ didn't she? The guy she'd been dating?

The older girl's brow quirked up, and there was undoubtedly a hint of suspicion in the movement.

_… yes?_

She looked down in her lap, her fingers clutching at her dress, and as she thought of what to say next, the memory of that night on the fjord hit her like a burst of stars inside of her chest, and a huge, nervous smile broke out on her lips as she recounted how they were out the day before, first for ice cream, then out to the park, around the fjord—

_Uh-huh—_

—and then they were under the aurora borealis, and it was all  _super_ romantic—

_Right._

—and then he-got-down-on-one-knee-and-proposed-to-me-and-I-screamed-so-loud-I-turned-over-the-boat but you know, it wasn't a big deal, really—

 _Wait,_ what?

She paused for a moment, and her smile widened even more, if that were possible. Because  _yes,_ Elsa had heard it right—she was  _engaged!_

The silence was so thick following her pronouncement that she wondered if she'd said something wrong—and as Elsa's brows knitted in consternation, that feeling was confirmed.

 _Anna … you can't marry someone you_ just _met._

She might have expected that reaction; after all, Elsa hadn't exactly been  _keen_ on Hans when they were first introduced, and even  _before_  then, she'd seemed to disapprove of other things, like the age gap between them, or what  _exactly_ he might have been using the rooms of the hotel for off-duty.

The smile disappeared from her lips at the thought, a frown replacing it. Elsa's remark didn't make sense to her, because she'd been seeing him for a month, by then—it wasn't as if he'd proposed the very  _night_  they'd met!

(Though, in retrospect, if he  _had_ … she probably would have said yes then, too.)

 _And a month is_ more _than enough time to get to know_ everything _about him before you get married, right?_ Elsa asked with a scathing sort of sarcasm, and it made her hairs stand on end in anger.

Who was  _Elsa_ to judge, anyway? To be so cynical about it? It was true love—she wouldn't have said "yes" to just  _anyone._

Elsa sighed, and the sound was  _gratingly_ condescending.

 _Anna, what do you even know about_ "true love"?

She wanted to snort at the question. She knew more than  _Elsa,_ at least—and had her older sister ever even  _been_ on a date with a guy?

 _That's not the point,_  Elsa bit back, her face reddening.  _You don't need to have_ experience _to know that getting married to someone after just_ one month _is a little unorthodox, to say the_ least _._

Even if Elsa had a point—which she wouldn't concede, because right then all she wanted to do was  _win_ that argument—she was still being too  _closed-minded_ about the idea, and anyway, it wasn't as if anything her sister said was going to change her mind.

She loved Hans, and she was going to marry him—whether Elsa liked it or not.

The. End.

 _First of all, I'm not being "closed-minded"—just_ practical.  _Second—_

Elsa stopped, suddenly; she stared at her, and pressed her to continue, though she had a feeling she wouldn't like what her sister had to say.

 _Second, if you're_ really  _serious about this guy—_

She was.

 _… well, in that case, even if you don't care about what I think—and you're going to go ahead with this no matter what—I just want you to consider_ one  _thing,_ Elsa went on, and folded her hands on the table, her fingers tense and white.

Her brow rose questioningly—and what was that "one" thing?

 _… having a_ long  _engagement._

She immediately frowned at the suggestion—what did it even  _mean?_ One month?  _Two?_

_Actually, I was thinking more like six, seven—a year, perhaps—_

She stood in irritation at that, the napkin on her lap falling to the floor. A  _year?_

No, no, no  _way._

She loved Hans, and he loved her; why would they wait any longer than necessary?

 _Look, Anna—I understand that you_ "love" _Hans, and that he may_ "love" _you—_

She scowled.

— _but just_ think _about it, for a minute: you only just started your freshman year of college, and you're already engaged to a man who's graduated and has his own career._

Elsa's expression shifted, became more serious.  _And after you get married, then what?_ Children? _Do you_ really _want to be raising kids while you're still in school?_

Her lips pursed, and she crossed her arms; then, she slowly sat back in the chair, though her shoulders were hunched discontentedly.

She hadn't thought about those things.

 _Well, it's a lot to think about,_ Elsa said, but didn't sound as patronising as before. _So please—don't even do it for me, just … for_ yourself _. All right?_

She shrugged, not looking at her, telling her she would  _consider_ the idea.

Elsa's sigh of relief—and the  _thank you_  that followed—made her wish she hadn't agreed.


	15. Scene 15

**Scene 15: Elsa, then**

_The first time he kissed her._

She saw him before he approached, this time—and the sight of him made her glower before he'd even opened his mouth.

What did he  _want?_

_You._

She scoffed at the reply, and how he leaned against the bookshelf,  _leering_ at her.

He was disgusting.

_Am I?_ he asked, smiling in a distinctly  _pleasant_ way.  _Your sister doesn't seem to think so._

Every single thing about him  _repulsed_ her, and she kept a safe distance between them.

_Well, that's a little_ vague,  _Elsa. Come on—tell me_ exactly  _what you hate about me._

Her teeth were already on edge, and she snapped them, her wrist flicking at her side.

He wanted specifics? Fine—she could do  _specifics_ when it came to him.

He was shameless, for one thing—no, lower than  _scum_ for going after her like that, behind Anna's back, and talking to her as if he knew her, following her around not once, but  _twice—_ and that was all without even getting to the reasons why he was pursuing her sister in the  _first_ place.

His smile, to her amazement,  _widened_.

_Which are?_

Her nose tilted up in defiance—why didn't he tell  _her_ what they were?

He shrugged.  _You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth._

She snorted—probably not—but he had to say it, now.

_If you insist_ , he replied, and then paused.  _Well, for starters—it_ does  _have to do with money._

Her eyes narrowed at him. So he was  _finally_  admitting it?

_You know about my family, I guess—how I'm the thirteenth son of Therese and Oskar Westergard, obligated to work in the family business, like you—_

Yes, of course, she  _knew_ that. But what did that have to do with anything?

His eyes shuttered dark.

_I want your firm to buy us out,_ he said without a hint of his usual, false charisma.  _Westergard Hotels._

She blinked, and her mouth opened for a moment—she didn't understand.

_It's going under—the whole chain—but my father's too proud to admit it. He'd rather hold on until the company's gone bankrupt than sell it while it still has some market value._

He cracked his knuckles, and she watched the movement, spellbound, hardly comprehending what he was saying.

_You can verify it for yourself, of course, but all the tell-tale signs are there: layoffs of the higher-ups, bills that will never be repaid on time, massive cuts in pay …_ He shrugged.  _I know it'll hurt father, but … it's for the best_.

She snapped out of her daze, and as her arms tensed again, she eyed him dubiously, because his story didn't make much sense. If he was  _really_ just interested in "saving" his family's company—a motive which she didn't trust in the  _slightest,_ anyway—and needed  _her_  to buy him out, shouldn't he have gone after …

_After what, Elsa?_ You?

She couldn't bring herself to say that—and so her throat  _burned_ instead in silence.

_Admittedly, as heir to the firm, you were_ preferable,  _of course—but no one was getting anywhere with_ you.

His words cut her more painfully than she would admit—and made her head  _throb_ with their bluntness, with their  _truth._

_But_ Anna?  _She's so desperate for love that she's willing to marry me just like_ that.  _And once we're married, and you've bought the chain, I'll be free from them—my father, my brothers—and with the Andersen name behind me, I'll move on to_ better  _things._

He chuckled, and she shuddered at the sound, crossing her arms—no, more like  _hugging_ them against her body—and scowled. What made him even  _dare_ to think that she would have bought out his company before, let alone  _after_ everything he'd just said?

_Because it doesn't matter what kind of person I am, or what my intentions are—we both_ know  _that you'd look good,_ damn  _good if you brought this business into the fold._

He smiled knowingly, and she  _hated_ him then; she didn't need his stupid chain of hotels.

_Maybe_ you  _don't think you do, but … if the board found out that you missed this_ golden  _opportunity,_   _I don't think they'd be thrilled_   _that you passed up on it._

His lip curled insidiously.

_And neither would Anna, once I told her._

She could have spit on him, then—at least, she  _wanted_ to, and she might have actually done it, if they weren't in that  _damn_ library. As if she would  _ever_ allow him to marry her sister, after all of that—

_But you will—you_ have  _to, because you know how_ devastated  _she'll be if I leave her, don't you?_ His gaze tightened.  _And for what? Because I wanted you to buy the company?_

He looked far too relaxed, too  _casual,_ for the venom that was  _dripping_  from him.

_Even if you tell her that's my only_   _motivation for going after her, who do you think she'll believe when I say that's not the case? When I tell her that her sister is just being selfish,_   _and wants her to be as_ miserable  _as she is?_

She felt sick, listening to him—and her head hurt more than ever—but she felt rooted to that spot, compelled to hear all of her faults spelled out for her, because a part of her thought she  _deserved_  that much.

_Don't worry, though—I don't intend to say anything like that to her,_ he assured her condescendingly, drawing nearer,  _too_ near.  _Not so long as you keep_   _quiet,_   _too._

She swallowed, and her lungs felt constricted as she tried to breathe normally, to ignore the strange mixture of loathing and fear and  _heat_ that bubbled in her chest as he stepped closer,  _closer._

His head tipped down.

_Oh—and there's something else, too, that I want from you._

Every line in her face was creased and aggravated as it jerked up to meet his, realising, too late, that doing so only ensured that she could feel his breath against her cheek, against her ear, on her  _neck_.

Her hands curled into fists, and she said, finally, that she didn't know what he was talking about.

_I think you do._

Her jaw clenched as she shoved him away, her cheeks the colour of ripened apples—and she told him not to  _fuck_ with her, because—

He kissed her, forcefully,  _fiercely,_ his hand against her collar.

She slapped him, forcefully,  _fiercely,_ her hand turned bright red from the contact.

And she told him to get out.


	16. Scene 16

**Scene 16: Anna, now**

_She remembers how they met._

She suddenly remembers the first time she met Kristoff, because it's not when she  _thought_ she first met him—after she walked in on  _them,_ and then walked out of the house, no,  _ran_ out of it, and he found her on the curb, talked to her, calmed her down—in fact, it was a long time before that ever happened.

Of course, the memory returns at the worst time possible, because that seems to  _always_ be the case with her; in fact, she's in the middle of a meeting with her guidance counsellor on campus, and she  _was_  trying to explain why she might need to extend her leave of absence from one semester to a whole year when suddenly, she's shocked mute.

"Miss Andersen? Is everything all right?"

She snaps back to reality long enough to say "yes, sorry, I'm fine" and continue with her speech—a speech she'd prepared, but which is now falling apart as it leaves her lips, because even though her timing is the  _worst,_ she can't help but pore over every moment of that memory.

Like the moment when she hired a cab from the sidewalk, practically running headfirst into it, her eyes wild with panic, desperate to get to Elsa before she got on the plane, because their parents were worried sick and she couldn't  _stand_ the misery on her mother's face.

Or how she felt as if she were about to throw up when the cab pulled over, so full of anxiety, and confusion, and  _anger_ towards her sister, not understanding why she was trying to run away from home, why she always  _shut everyone out._

Or how  _he_  had been the driver,  _Kristoff_ , and she had screamed at him to go faster, and with his help she had gotten there in time—not that it had mattered, though, since Elsa didn't have the courage to go through with it anyway, and was standing by the windows, watching the plane she was supposed to be on take off with a look of hollow resignation, tear tracks dried on her pale cheeks.

And she remembered that most clearly of all: how Elsa just  _stood there_  and took it as she berated her,  _yelled_  at her in front of everyone at the airport, and didn't even move when she hugged her tightly.

Didn't  _reciprocate_.

None of that matters anymore, she thinks, as her mouth moves, and says something vaguely pitiable that makes the counsellor nod sympathetically; none of the parts related to  _Elsa,_ anyway.

But when she remembers  _his_ face staring at her,  _worrying_ for her, even all those years ago—she has to swallow down the blush rising in her throat, because then  _no one_ is going to feel sorry for her.

And she needs them to, just for a little while longer.


	17. Scene 17

**Scene 17: Elsa, then**

_She likes_ this  _Elsa better._

_Are you seeing someone?_

She nearly choked on her water, staring at Anna in something like dumbfounded silence.

_What_ did she just say?

The redhead stuttered, looking nervous.  _I was just, uh, you know, I noticed something, well,_ different  _about you, recently, and I thought, maybe—_

Something …  _different?_ Her brow rose, her grip tightened.

_It's nothing bad, really, just ... um, I see you smiling more than usual lately, and sometimes I even see you_ blushing _, so I guessed—_

Her heart raced in her chest—she couldn't have her sister getting any  _ideas_  about it—and calmly denied it.

_You sure? I mean, it really_ seems  _like you are, but—_

Her denial was flat and hard the second time, and she thought her hand might slip around the glass.

Anna looked down, contrite.  _Oh ... nevermind, then. Stupid question. I mean, you're always so busy—working, events, planning stuff—when would you have time for a_ guy _, right?_

She swallowed thickly, and agreed.

_Not that you can't be in a relationship, or something like that—you're so_ beautiful _, after all, I mean, any guy would be lucky to have you—I just …_ Anna trailed off sheepishly, blushing.

She allowed herself a small smile at the expression, since she knew her sister meant well—it was okay.

Her sister sighed in relief.  _Oh, well, that's good. I didn't want to make it seem like I was saying you were_ frigid _, or something, you know—_

She raised a warning brow, and Anna's hands fidgeted over the tablecloth.

_Okay. I'll shut up now._

She was thankful for the silence left in the wake of that—thankful, but also saddled with a deep sense of  _dread_ about the conversation, and everything that had been left unsaid.

Was she … was she really that  _different_ from before?

Anna looked up in surprise; she hadn't expected another question.

_Well, of course, you're still you, but ... yeah, I think so._  She smiled.  _In a good way, though! I mean, you're usually so closed off—no offense—and it's kind of hard to figure out what you're really thinking, but these days ... I dunno._  Her blue eyes warmed. _You just seem ... happier._

The word slapped her across the face, scalding her.

_(Happier.)_

_Yeah. But I guess I was wrong about the relationship thing, so ... is something else going on?_

A tingle of anxiety re-entered her fingertips, though she tried to mask her discomfort. What else did Anna mean?

_Maybe like something related to work?_

No—nothing like that.

(Nothing Anna could know about, anyway.)

Anna was curious, but—unlike usual—she didn't push the issue, perhaps too pleased with actually getting more than a few sentences out of her older sister to challenge her further.

_Well, whatever it is, keep doing what you're doing!_ she exclaimed with a grin, and stuffed a truffle in her mouth, the chocolate poking against her left cheek.  _Because I like this Elsa—and I think_ you _like her more, too._

She returned her sister's smile, barely—and when Anna turned back to her food, satisfied with the reaction, she had to fight the urge to flee the room.

Her hands were shaking.


	18. Scene 18

**Scene 18: Anna, then**

_The first time they made love._

She'd never been one to keep to tradition, even when it came to something like this; and actually,  _Hans_ had been the one to hesitate, to ask  _are you sure?,_ to consider the idea carefully.

She adored him all the more for it.

In fact, she'd never intended to wait until they were married to do it, contrary, she guessed, to what he expected—and how  _could_ she, when all she could think about was how  _good_  it would feel to have his hands run over her skin, over every sensitive place she'd scarcely touched herself, and to have him look at her,  _drink_ her in, as if she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen?

If nothing else, her fantasies of that night had made the decision  _for_ her, and—as bluntly as ever—she'd approached him straight out about it one day, a couple weeks after he'd proposed, nearly causing him to crash the car as he drove her back home.

When he got over that initial shock, and all the fussing over whether she was  _sure_ about it, he'd blushed in the cutest way—the red spreading first over his already-rosy cheeks, to his ears, down his neck, under the collar of his white dress shirt, which she  _desperately_ wanted to unbutton—and it made her want to ask him to stop the car then and there, and crawl over to the backseat, because she was never good at being patient.

He'd talked her down from there, convinced her that the first time should be romantic, and intimate, and  _special;_ and when she remembered the effort he'd gone to with the proposal, her heart had fluttered, and she'd quickly agreed to wait (even if the butterflies in her stomach burst in the meantime).

That was how, another week or so later, she had ended up there, in a room of the  _Westergard , _the place where they'd first met, a private suite he'd finagled just for the two of them, for that one night. She might have known that he would have all the "works" set up beforehand, with the rose petals, and the candles, and the dinner set for two, but those perfect little additions pleasantly surprised her, and she kissed him gently in thanks.

Of course, when she tried to deepen the kiss, he softly pushed her away, smirking in a way that made her knees weak.

_Not yet, you,_ he scolded her, though his eyes had darkened a little from the taste of her, and suddenly she realised that she was going to have to sit through dinner, and rose petals, and  _candles_  without being able to change her underwear—or even being able to take it off—and she squirmed uncomfortably at the notion, making him grin.

Despite that, she managed to sit through dinner, because, well, it was  _him_ sitting across from her, smiling, telling her about the Southern Isles, and his  _twelve_ older brothers, and how they ignored him—and it made her respond in kind with knitted brows, telling him about how she used to be so close with Elsa when they were little, but then, her sister's  _problems_ had started, and she shut her out, and her parents sent her away to boarding school while Elsa was tutored at home, and even after she'd come back when their parents died, there was still a giant wall between them.

(Actually, it was a door— _Elsa's_ door.)

He'd listened,  _understood,_ because his older brothers had done the same to him— _three of them pretended I was invisible, literally, for_ two years—but he couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her, not knowing, or  _seeing,_ her only sister for so long.

It was strange, she thought, to be having that conversation  _then,_ considering what they were going to be getting up to  _later;_ but she also felt lighter unloading that tightness in her chest, the heaviness that was always pressing down on her, threatening to topple her over.

In a strange way, it made her feel even more  _intimate_ with him than before, because she hadn't ever told anyone else those things.

Because no one else had ever cared enough to ask, or even  _listen._

And maybe it was the same for him, she realised, though the idea stunned her a little, since he was so  _handsome_ , and seemed pretty popular—she couldn't imagine a time when he would have felt alone, and bitter, and  _scared_ like she had been—but she believed him, because she recognised the same anger in his brow that she used to carry, and still did.

The same  _resentment._

But then, the look faded, and they made their way to the bed; she brushed away the petals, and he looked apologetic, scratching the back of his head.

_Sorry—it's a bit much, isn't it?_

She bit her cheek to keep from giggling too loudly at the question, crawling across the bed until she was kneeling in front of him, and grinned cheekily, telling him that she liked it, actually.

He allowed her, then, to draw her into the kiss she'd attempted earlier—but the kiss threw him off-balance, and he landed nearly on top of her, stopping himself so that he hovered above her while her back laid against the bed, her eyes looking up at him with a devious sparkle.

He reddened.

_To be honest, I—I don't have much experience with this kind of thing,_ he confessed,  _adorably,_ and she bit her lip as her brow rose in scepticism.  _My brothers drove away all the girls I was ever interested in growing up, so even when I was in college, I …_ he trailed off, and looked embarrassed.  _I didn't really have the confidence to approach anyone._

She wondered if he was  _really_ telling the truth about it—after all, he was so _gorgeous_ , and so damn  _perfect,_ that she found it hard to believe he was just an amateur—but he just looked so stupidly  _cute_ there, keeping a polite distance above her, that she grinned wider, and her hands came to rest on the back of his neck, pulling him down towards her.

And then she kissed him again, but more  _sensuously  _than before; when she felt something hard against her thigh, and his face get hot, she knew she must have been doing something right.

_Anna—_

She cut him off with another kiss, more pressing, more  _fervent_ than the one before, and he stopped trying to talk—because his hands were gently working at the buttons on her shirt, and she the zipper on his pants, and there wasn't anything else to say.

Well, except for one thing—that she loved him—and she breathed that into their kiss, onto his lips, causing him to pause, just for a second, and look at her, really  _look_ at her, and lift a hand to stroke the side of her face.

The movement was long, and lovely, and calm— _intoxicating,_ even—and then he took the end of her braid and touched his lips to her hair, making her blush.

_I love you, too._

The blood was  _pulsing_ in her face, between her thighs, and she thought she might cry, then, in that instant, in that speck of time, hearing him say those words. But he held her in his arms, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, and the tears were never shed.

And she didn't think she could ever love someone more than she did him in that moment.


	19. Scene 19

**Scene 19: Elsa, now**

_She's jealous of Anna._

Normally, when his hands are raking down the front of her shirt, and  _under_ it, touching her in just the way she likes, she doesn't say a word of complaint—actually, she just  _moans,_ or  _sighs,_ and encourages him—but now, when she's trying to get dressed for work after spending the night at his apartment, and he's unbuttoning every button on her shirt that she's just fastened, she merely finds him  _aggravating._

"Would you  _stop that?"_ she snaps, but her body is betraying her even then, because her underwear is  _soaking_ without him even touching her there yet, and her neck is tingling as he leaves kisses along it, his sideburns tickling her skin.

"It doesn't seem like you want me to," he says, grinning as he pulls her shirt up from under the waistband of her skirt, undoes the last button of the shirt, and spreads it open for easier access.

She doesn't argue with that, even though she wants to—and she  _could_ if she tried, since he's going to make her late for work, which is as legitimate a reason as any to push him away—but it's rare that she sleeps the night at his place anymore, let alone wakes up to him being so  _ravenous_ with her, and so she soaks in the attention, and shudders as he sucks on the spot just behind her right ear, the spot that makes her hips  _buck_ against his without even meaning to.

His hand reaches down between her thighs, then—reaches, and  _touches,_ and she hears a low chuckle escape his throat, the kind that used to make her  _tremble_ with desire.

"You  _definitely_ don't want me to stop."

That sentence, spoken with such  _ease,_ suddenly makes her feel cold—as cold as the "block of ice" he once accused her of being—and even as her body jerks against his fingers running along her folds,  _disgustingly_ slick with want, there's the familiar feeling of  _envy_ curling itself around her heart, under the same breast he's absently caressing with his left hand.

Because suddenly, she remembers it: the way Anna  _gushed_ to her, in confidence, about her first time with Hans, leaving out the details but still saying too much.

The memory is enough to make her sick.

"Is this what you used to do to  _Anna?"_ she asks, gritting her teeth as he slides two fingers  _in_  and  _out_  of her. "Is this how you  _touched_ her?"

He growls in annoyance, moves so that he's standing in front of her, and then pushes her back onto the mattress, ignoring her cry of protest.

"I don't understand how you can even  _ask_ me that," he retorts with a scowl, but even as he does, he gets down on his knees on the floor in front of her, and spreads her legs, lifting them up over his shoulders, even as they flex tensely, trying to reject him.

And then she feels it—his _,_ perfectly-angled,  _royal_  nose rubbing sharply against the crotch of her panties—and she breathes in sharply, her legs freezing.

She intends to stop him, to collect her wits, to ask him,  _again,_ if this is all the same to him—Anna or Elsa, it doesn't matter, so long as  _his_ needs are fulfilled—but he's pushed aside the fabric between his tongue and her  _centre_ before she can say anything, and her eyes roll back, a  _moan_ escaping her.

But it's still there, at the back of her mind, through the haze of lust clouding her thoughts: the idea that he did this to her, to  _Anna,_ and when he did it, he was probably sweet, and kind, and  _slow—_ not greedy, and harsh, and  _fast_ like he is now—and she trembles.

(And then, she comes.)


	20. Scene 20

**Scene 20: Anna, now**

_She crumbles in front of him._

"You knew that we met before, didn't you?"

He's startled by the question, and that's natural, she supposes, since she  _did_ just ask it right after he'd opened his door; it's clear, from his wide eyes, that he wasn't expecting her at that late hour (or, perhaps, at all).

"What?"

Her eyes narrow. "Back then, when you picked me up from the curb," she clarifies, her lip turning up. "That wasn't the first time we met, was it?"

He looks embarrassed, and that's confirmation enough.

"Yeah—I mean, it wasn't."

Her arms cross automatically. "Why didn't you  _tell_  me that?"

He frowns in that  _way,_ and copies her stance. "Does it matter?"

She knows he's right, really—that it doesn't matter, logically, whether they met before or after she walked in on Elsa  _fucking_ her fiancé—but a part of her is still irritated that he knew, and didn't say anything all this time.

Because it  _does_ matter.

It matters for reasons she doesn't even understand, or maybe reasons she understands too  _well,_ like the fact that he's always been there for her even when she hasn't realised it herself—to pick her up, tell her she can get through it, that she's  _not_ just the spare, to give her strength in his silence—and even though she wants to snap at him as usual about it, to blame  _him_ for making her so confused, she just—

_Crumbles._

And then she's crying, crying in the  _ugliest_ way, with snot dripping down from her nose and her vision so blurred from tears that she can't tell left from right, and where before she would have fled, not wanting him to see her tears—to see her so  _weak—_ this time, she propels herself at him, and tosses her arms around his broad shoulders, not caring that she's probably soaking the front of his shirt in the grossest way ever.

He's stunned, it seems, because he doesn't embrace her back right away; soon, though, his arms are tightly wrapped around her small body, and he's warm, so  _warm,_ that she dreads ever having to pull away from him again.

She chokes on a sob against his shoulder, and tells him—

"You're an  _idiot_ , Kristoff."

(But she can feel him smiling against her ear, and it makes her smile, too.)


	21. Scene 21

**Scene 21: Elsa, then**

_The first time she kissed him._

She did just as Hans had told her to do, in the days and weeks following their last encounter:  _verified_ his claims behind closed doors with her assistants, who'd quietly been making inquiries on her behalf, and confirming that the chain was, indeed,  _ripe_ for the taking.

But in spite of all that, there were still too many questions.

Questions about  _him,_ about his intentions towards his family's business, towards her sister …

And towards  _her._

The latter of these, at least, had been made somewhat _clearer_  after last time; she was loathe to remember the event, though she did, and  _often._  She had a penchant, really, to dwell on things for far longer than was necessary, and he was no different—the smirking, grinning,  _green-eyed_ Hans—and even without the complicating factor of him kissing her, she probably would've been agonising over him out of habit.

His bluntness, if nothing else, replayed in her mind because it had been so  _insolent_ , and so completely different from Anna's in the way that it was used on purpose, to  _hurt_ her.

But he wanted her, too.

And after being forced to sit through several more dinners with him and Anna, and pretending not to notice as he laughed, and she giggled, and they necked each other in the most disgustingly  _cute_ way imaginable, she was just  _sick_ of him—of his hands running over her sister's, his emerald eyes fluttering into her blue ones, and their matching freckles. It set her teeth on edge, made her stomach  _twist_ with something foreign, and sometimes she even had to excuse herself from the table.

But every time she did, she could feel his eyes on her back, burning holes into the bare skin of her neck, her collar, and her hands.

And she wanted him, too.

She realised it suddenly during dinner with Anna one weekend, on a night that she hadn't been expecting her sister to be home at all—since, as she kept  _prattling_ on about, she was supposed to be out with  _him_ all evening, but he'd had to cancel their plans because his shift had changed at the last minute—and her grip on her wineglass tightened  _painfully_ as a vicious heat ripped through her, starting at the pit of her belly and working its way up to her face.

_Are you all right, Elsa?_

She nodded to Anna, barely; then, she said that she had to go back to the office to grab something, because she'd forgotten her briefcase at work (and, actually, she had), but she'd be back soon.

Anna nodded, but her shoulders slumped in disappointment.

(She held in a shudder at the movement—she didn't want to feel the guilt that was already  _beating_ in her heart.)

She left without even finishing off the glass, though the wine still left her cheeks tinged slightly pink. She remembered, at the last minute, to swipe her sunglasses off the table by the door, tucking them into her purse automatically.

Then, she drove—absently hoping there were no cops on the beat in her area that night—but mainly, she was  _boiling_ with thoughts, with  _plans_ of what she was going to say to him.

She was determined, at the very least, to tell him off: to tell him that he had to break off his engagement with Anna because he wasn't good enough for her, or  _anyone_ , for that matter; to tell him that he was awful, and to go back to the Southern Isles, where he  _belongs_ ; to tell him that he was wrong about her, about who she was, and about what she  _wanted_.

She arrived at  _The Westergard _and her head was a churning, blurry mess, the hotel resembling a column of blinking lights against the starless night sky, but she snapped her sunglasses on as she walked in, ignoring the looks of confusion at the shades over her eyes.

She asked at the front desk about him, and they told her he was in his office, but that she should wait outside while they called him. She would have  _none_ of that, though, and said, as politely as she could, that she already knew Mr. Westergard  _very_ well, thank you, and she would show herself in.

She was walking away from the desk towards his office before they could convince her to stop, and just as she rounded the corner (and one of the receptionists had finally caught up with her), Hans emerged from behind the door—and stared at her for a moment, quizzically, until she lifted the glasses.

His eyes widened, and he quickly dismissed the receptionist, holding the door open for her to step through.

She gripped the sunglasses in her hand as she stood at the threshold, her eyes hard and cold as they regarded him; though she heard it all in her head, all the  _things_ she had rehearsed, the  _lines_ she wanted to say—

—they died on her lips, because he was blushing.

She'd never seen him do that before—not because of  _her,_ anyway—and it startled her, and made  _her_  face hot, too.

(Somehow, she thought, it seemed genuine—more genuine than anything she had ever seen him wear for Anna.)

He swallowed.

_Is there something you want, El—_

But he didn't get to finish that question, because she pushed him back against the door, and it closed behind him,  _loudly_.

And then she kissed him.

She kissed him  _hard,_ pressing her tongue into his mouth, and he eagerly responded, his hands going everywhere she'd seen them go on Anna (hands, neck, arms) and also to other places—places where she wondered if he'd touched her sister yet (breasts, thighs,  _centre_ ).

She let him lift her so that her legs were wrapped around him, let him carry her to his desk, let him  _squeeze_ her ass tightly as he shoved his papers off to the side, let him place her atop it.

She kicked off her heels behind his back, and he smoothed his hands over her feet, her legs, and her  _thighs_ as he ground himself against her. She moaned into his mouth, he got harder, and she rubbed her hand along the front of his black pants, smiling against his lips when he shuddered at her touch.

_Elsa—_

She didn't want to hear him speak—hear the sound of his voice, hear the sound of him  _saying her name_ —so she crushed her lips to his again, and he didn't seem to mind that, because he wanted her.

And for once, she wanted to oblige, to take him  _inside_ of her, to be  _filled_ with something she only knew the outlines of but had never really felt _._

So he  _obliged_ her, too—her bucking hips, her fingers clutching at his arms through his white dress shirt, her teeth scraping along the stubble of his neck—and a burst of pain, white and searing and  _hot,_ accompanied the first thrust of his cock into her,  _pulsing_ with the promise of release.

Every plunge felt like needles in her gut, and she bit into his neck, her legs like a vice around him; when he tried to slow down, to touch her more gently, she bit him  _harder,_ her nails digging in more sharply, and so he continued at the same,  _stabbing_ pace as before, his hands gripping her hips.

She wanted that pain—she needed it,  _deserved_ it—and even as she winced, and  _hurt,_ there was something building inside of her, something like longing, and hope, and a vague kind of desperation all at once.

If she'd been thinking clearly, she would have known that those weren't things she should have been feeling, or even  _beginning_ to feel, because he wasn't hers—he was  _Anna's—_ and she'd already done enough to her sister, and made her suffer too much, to do this, too.

But then she came, and he followed her shortly after, swallowing her cries with a kiss.

(And she stopped thinking.)


	22. Scene 22

**Scene 22: Anna, then**

_The day she caught them together._

It was hard to believe that she was already looking at wedding invitations, since it seemed like only yesterday when she was sending out the letters announcing the engagement, Elsa staring disapprovingly from her window as she handed them to the mailman—but it was even harder to realise that she was doing it  _alone._

Hans had told her just the day before that he suddenly had to pick up someone else's shift,  _again,_ even though they'd made these plans a while back, and  _couldn't he just get someone else to fill in?_

Seeing his consternated, guilty expression, however, she'd known better than to whine for too long. After all, he  _was_ one of the Westergard sons—and, still being a management trainee, it wouldn't look good if he just delegated his work to others.

Still, she was so  _lonely,_ perusing the options with a clerk in the store, only half-listening to the woman as she went on about how  _impeccably embossed_ one set was, or  _oh, just_ look  _at the shine of this paper!_

(She'd never been one to notice the finer details of these kinds of things—she just  _knew_ when she liked something, instinctively, and that was that.)

He  _did_ say that she could text him with photos of the samples she liked, or just in general, if she got bored (and he'd said it with such a sly smile that she'd nudged him in the side with a grin, because it was  _impossible_ to stay mad at him when he wore that look); but she had already sent him a couple, and he hadn't replied yet, which was pretty unusual for him.

It didn't necessarily  _worry_ her, per se—she guessed that he was just busy with work, cleaning up some patron's mess, dealing with a bar fight—but it did make her antsy and more distracted than the clerk, who was staring at her pointedly, probably would have liked.

She wondered, absently, if Elsa was busy; after all, her sister had always been much more particular about design, and fashion, and  _orderliness,_ and so she might have a better perspective on which invitation would look best.

It was decided, then—she excused herself with an appropriately apologetic expression, and walked back to the parking lot—and though she hesitated for a moment, pondering on whether or not she should text or call Elsa in advance, she eventually just shrugged, remembering that her sister  _rarely_ left the house on the weekends, confining herself to her room to catch up on work.

Then again, Elsa  _had_  been a bit more outgoing in recent weeks—she'd actually accepted invitations to go for walks outside, and chat about school and work, and hadn't always seemed so  _anxious_ whenever she did—so if her sister was home like she suspected, she thought that Elsa might actually  _enjoy_ accompanying her back to the store, or perhaps to the movies instead.

And that thought made her smile for the whole drive back home.

When she arrived, parked, and entered, the house was eerily quiet—usually, Kai or Gerda would have been there to greet her, take her hat or coat or shoes or purse, and close the door behind her—but then, it  _was_ possible that Elsa had given them the day off, as she did from time to time on the weekends (though Elsa usually  _told_ her when she did).

She brushed off the apprehension, dropping her keys on the table by the door. She didn't bother to take off her flats, though, since she didn't plan on spending long back in the house—just long enough to knock on Elsa's door, convince her to come to the store, and then go back out again.

She went upstairs with that mission in mind, and walked down the hall, reaching Elsa's room at the end … and instinctively she paused there, standing in front of it, just like always.

She was just about to shake off the familiar feeling and  _just_   _knock already,_ announce her presence with a bright smile, ask the question—but then, she heard something from inside the room, something muffled and  _heavy,_  and she noticed that the door wasn't locked like it should have been.

In fact, it was  _open,_ just the slightest crack, enough to hear but not to see.

Those noises concerned her, though, because they sounded strange,  _gasping_ —and so she swallowed down her hesitation, and she opened the door.

And her heart stopped.

There he was,  _Hans,_ his pants pulled down to his knees, his torso bare, blinking at her in dull surprise.

There she was,  _Elsa,_ her bottom half bare, her blouse halfway-unbuttoned, staring at her in terror.

And he was under her on the bed, her arms pinned on either side of him, her chest breathlessly heaving above his, her knee nudging against his crotch, her eyes—no, their  _dead mother's_ eyes—glued to her in stunned, horrified,  _shame._

_Anna—_

She thought she heard Elsa say her name as she ran out, but she wasn't sure, and she didn't care.

(Because she couldn't  _hear,_ much less  _see,_ anything at all.)

She ran from the house, from the neighbourhood, down the road, as far as her feet would take her—and she hoped that that was  _far,_ since she couldn't imagine going back, couldn't imagine seeing their faces ever again.

Eventually, though, she stopped running, because her breath ran out, and her feet felt ragged, blistering under the heat of the sun; she sat down on a curb somewhere, near a store she'd probably driven past a million times but had never paid attention to, and she was glad, for once, that there was nobody else around to  _see_ her—or to  _hear_ her as she buried her face between bent knees.

She didn't know what hurt worse, in that moment: that he had been there,  _Hans,_ her fiancé, with her sister—nestled comfortably underneath her, gazing at Elsa with an expression she thought was reserved only for  _her_ —

—or that she, the Ice Queen, Elsa,  _her own sister,_ had opened the door, had let him just  _walk in,_ had gazed back at him with something in her eyes that was too real, too  _pure_ , to call an act.

But she couldn't bring herself to name it, because her throat was already raw from screaming.


	23. Scene 23

**Scene 23: Elsa, now**

_She's dependent on him._

He's getting bored of her.

That's what she fears, because he's gotten  _snappier_ with her lately when they meet, after he's finished, when she asks him if he'll stay (he almost never does anymore), and sometimes he doesn't answer her texts for days at a time.

She hasn't felt this alone, or  _scared,_ since her parents died—or, more accurately, since she refused to go their funeral,  _couldn't_ go, because her room was her sanctuary, her safe place, her  _prison_ , and she was afraid that if she left it, everything would crumble apart even more than it already had.

It makes her frown, and scowl, and nearly  _scream_ in frustration when she realises how dependent she's become on him, how  _necessary_ he is for her to maintain even the façade of normalcy. She's not sure when that happened, nor  _how,_ but she knows that he's the only thing that's kept her going, in all the days and  _months_ since Anna stopped talking to her.

But she questions that, too—she questions whether he's really done anything at all to help her, or if he's only made things  _worse_ —and she wonders if she's just deluding herself, when it comes to him.

Maybe, she thinks, it's not that she  _depends_ on him, but more that she can't face the idea of being alone again—isolated, angry, bitter,  _cold_.

Maybe, she thinks, he sees that—sees that, and is pushing her away, because she's being too much of a  _burden_ on him with her anxiety, and spells of deep depression, and  _need_.

But she doesn't know how to stop it, or even if she  _wants_ to, because he knows everything about her: every secret, every truth, every  _lie._ And if she loses him, it'll be like losing a part of herself.

(She knows that sounds stupid, corny,  _romantic …_ but it's none of those things.)

She thinks of it, then—that night in the bar, the first night—and she wants to cry.


	24. Scene 24

**Scene 24: Anna, now**

_He loves her._

There's something solid and firm about Kristoff that she's grown to appreciate, now that she sees how much he's helped her, in his own way—how much he  _cares,_ even when he's too afraid to say it.

She prefers his shyness, she thinks, to the open,  _false_ romance that Hans offered her, and the  _lies_ that Elsa told her, and the well-intentioned—but ultimately flawed—actions of her parents, who kept their daughters separate for so long (and for reasons she still doesn't fully understand).

He tolerates her, yes, but more than that, she sees the love he doesn't admit to openly in his brown eyes; in his rare smile; in his shoulders hunching when she's upset; and in his frown when she's done something "improper."

(And that's rich, she thinks with a smirk, coming from  _him_.)

She wonders how she couldn't—or, perhaps, didn't  _want_ —to see it before, when the sight of it now fills her with something that's close to  _joy._

Something like the happiness she never thought she would feel again.

Of course, it's all been slow, so  _unbearably_ slow—probably more so for him, since he's known it,  _felt_ it all this time, waiting for her to catch up—but the wait has been worth it, if only because when it hits her that  _she_   _loves him back,_ the sensation is like a flower blooming within her, and the scent of it leaves her heady with happiness.

Now that she's waited, though, she's also more cautious, more  _careful,_ and while she knows she doesn't have to be with him, he seems to appreciate the ways in which she's gradually becoming tenderer.

Like when she allows her hand to softly linger over his knuckles while he's driving, or when she hugs him from behind and rubs her nose against his back until he relaxes against her, or when she finally sits next to him on the bed, and threads her fingers through his mussed hair before pulling him close for a kiss.

She's never done anything lightly—never given a kiss or a hug without genuine  _feeling_ behind it—but now she's even more delicate with such gestures, because he's such a wary person, and she wants him to know, to be  _sure,_ that when she kisses him, hugs him,  _touches_ him, that she really, truly means it, and that those things are only for him.

And that she is, too.


	25. Scene 25

**Scene 25: Elsa, then**

_She let him into her room._

She didn't know why or how it had begun, but she had started to …  _tell_ him things.

Things like her fears—fears of abandonment, of imprisonment, of judgment.

Things like her dreams—dreams of confidence, of fulfilment, of freedom _._

And he told her things, too—and she always wondered, with a  _burning_  chest, if he'd already told them to her sister—things about his family, his past, his fears, his hopes.

(But they never spoke of  _feelings_ —no.)

It had taken a long time by "normal" standards, she guessed, to open up to him. But by her own, it had all happened so  _fast,_ jumping from hatred and suspicion to fascination to lust to …

Whatever  _that_ was.

Even  _that,_ however, wasn't much by those same standards—just a few hushed words spoken in private places, like his apartment or his office (never hers) after he finished and was resting on top of her, or under her, or beside her—but  _inside_  it felt like a new life bursting from under her feet, like the shock of touching fresh snow for the first time, like a door opening.

Of course, the lust was still there, and so was the suspicion, though admittedly there was less of the latter and more of the former. Though she wanted to hold onto something like distrust, something like  _fear,_ that became increasingly difficult with every brush of his fingers along hers, and every secret smile he sent her when Anna wasn't looking.

(And the guilt wasn't strong enough anymore to stop her from seeing him, from touching him, from  _wanting_ him.)

Still, there were  _some_ things they hadn't broached; up until that day, she'd been intending to keep it that way, because it was easier, more  _convenient,_ to shove those thoughts down, down,  _down_ until she could pretend that they'd never existed in the first place.

Not that that stopped him from bringing them up, of course—and when he did, every once in a while, she almost always left him disappointed.

Recently, though, something had changed,  _shifted_ within her, though she couldn't name what it was, or even understand it all that well. He had sensed that too, and had pushed a little  _harder_ at her defences, chipping away at what she thought had been impenetrable.

First were the questions about her parents—why they separated her from Anna, why they isolated her, how they died—and she couldn't remember how he'd managed to coax the answers out of her, except that he'd been gently stroking her hair in the way her mother used to when he did, and his voice had been little more than a soft whisper against her ear.

Then came the reminder that  _yes,_ he still wanted her to buy out the  _Westergard_ chain—and that reminder left a sour,  _bitter_ taste in her mouth every time it left his lips—but lately, she'd been saying she would  _consider_ the idea, which was leaps and bounds from the first time he brought it up. In fact, she was quite aggressively investigating the prospect of a buyout with her team (though she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that—not  _yet,_ anyway).

And then, last of all these, there was the matter of her room.

He suggested, once, that they go there instead of always meeting at his place—but when she'd sharply rejected the idea before he could even finish the sentence, he'd quickly dropped the issue, and she assumed that that was the last she would hear about it.

But nothing was simple with Hans, nor  _easy_ , and after a month or two had passed, and things had  _changed,_ he asked again.

He was gentler the second time, though— _softer_ —and he said he could just tell Anna that he had work at the last minute one day when they were supposed to be looking at things for the wedding together, and she could dismiss Kai and Gerda, and then they'd have the house to themselves.

She'd resisted, naturally, on the counts that  _one,_ she didn't like the idea of him lying to Anna about work (though that was incredibly absurd, she realised, given the context of their entire situation), and  _two,_ if they had the whole house to themselves … then why did they need to be in  _her room,_ specifically?

There was something in his gaze, though, that gave her pause—that made her think of the closed door, cold whispers at night, shivering tears—and she wondered if maybe, just  _maybe,_ it was time to—

Let it go.

And so, to his surprise, she relented.

She still swallowed uncomfortably, even with her hand on the door knob and her fingers shaking. She was thankful that he didn't touch her, because she needed to do it herself: to open the door, to let him in.

And then she did.

He held her back against his chest, once they were inside, his embrace tenderer than she thought him capable of being, and she trembled something awful in his arms even as he kissed the side of her face and told her it would be all right, pressing her palms into his.

It gave her the strength she needed to suck in a deep breath, turn around in his arms, and grasp his hands firmly in her own; she led him to her bed, laid him down atop it, and let her fingers steady themselves as they ghosted over the sharp peak of his nose, across the freckles on his cheeks, and along the strong line of his jaw.

For the first time in forever, she realised, she didn't want to run away, to catch a plane, to escape—and it was because he was there, and he  _understood._

She smiled.


	26. Scene 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone, again, for all the support. In case it wasn't clear from the last instalment, Scene 25 was meant to take place right before Anna discovered Elsa and Hans in the room.

**Scene 26: Anna, then**

_The day she was sent away._

When her parents told her they were sending her away to boarding school, she cried all night, and sulked for a week after that.

Things had changed, she knew that—even being as young as she was, she could see that Elsa had grown colder recently,  _distant,_ even towards their parents—but it didn't seem fair to separate her from her sister when she didn't even understand what was happening.

Why was she being sent away when Elsa got to stay and be tutored at home?

Why did Mama and Papa look so  _sad_ whenever she asked about Elsa?

Why didn't Elsa ever open the door anymore?

None of it made sense.

And no one was telling her anything.

(She'd tried to pry information from Kai and Gerda, and had even promised not to steal cookies from the pantry anymore if they told her—but they remained tight-lipped, shaking their heads, just like her parents.)

Days and then weeks passed in that manner, and then it was the night before she was going to be sent off—and although she'd cried too hard, and too long, and too many times by then to shed more tears, she was still burning with a desperate curiosity that didn't let her sleep.

And so she quietly crossed the hall to her sister's room (they used to share one, actually, before Elsa  _changed,_ and stopped playing with her, braiding her hair, touching her, even  _talking_ to her) and tentatively stood outside the door.

She had tried knocking a lot over the last few months, but Elsa always replied with  _go away, Anna,_ or  _leave me alone, Anna,_ or  _I'm going to tell Mama and Papa if you do it again!,_ and thus she had grown wary of using that tactic. But it was the only way she had left of communicating with her older sister, even if the rare responses she got were harsh, irritated ones.

And so she persisted.

(She'd never been a girl to take  _no_ for an answer, anyway.)

She knocked once, her knuckles lightly rapping on the door in her five- _thunk_ pattern, and she heard Elsa roll over under the covers in her bed, and then grumble, but nothing else.

She tried again, making sure not to do it too loudly, since it was late; again, there was a slight shuffling, but little more.

On the third attempt, she finally heard something more solid—a sigh, and then an angry turn in the bed—before her sister's thin voice called out on the air:

_Go to sleep, Anna._

This pacified her, but she refused to budge, and purposefully sat down in front of the door,  _thumping_ her head lightly against it as she stared into the dark hallway and drew her little knees up to her chest.

_Go back to your_ own  _room, Anna._

She ignored Elsa's second command, and then the third, and fourth, and fifth; and though it was cold, and she shivered, tucking her knees tightly under her chin, eventually the sound of her sister's voice lulled her to sleep.

_Go away,_   _Anna._

* * *

When she woke up, she was back in her own bed, and it was morning.

And she was  _furious._

It must have been Mama or Papa who'd found her and put her back there, she thought as she stomped out of her room and down the stairs in a fit, her face as red as her hair as she stared up at them angrily while they ate their breakfast calmly at the kitchen table.

She mouthed off the accusation before they had a chance to ask what was wrong, and her chest huffed and puffed, thinking she'd caught them in their own game. They only looked back at her in confusion, as if they didn't know what she was talking about.

Papa looked at her, concerned.

_You were sleeping outside in the hallway?_

Her eyes darted between them, and then fell on the empty chair by her mother—the empty chair, she realised, that  _Elsa_ used to sit in.

She blushed in shock and muttered something unintelligible to him in reply as she stalked out of the kitchen again, running to the sitting room with all the paintings she liked, her eyes as wide as saucers.

She was crouched on the chaise under her favourite portrait, the one of Joan of Arc in her gleaming suit of armour, when she finally caught her breath—but her cheeks were still burning,because she knew then,  _instinctively,_ that it hadn't been Mama, or Papa, or Kai, or even  _Gerda_ who'd put her back in her own bed, but …

Elsa.

Elsa, who didn't like to be touched, or touch anyone else, lately— _Elsa_ was the one who'd picked her up, carried her to her room, put her in bed, and tucked her in.

It didn't seem real then or later, when Gerda was dressing her in the boarding school's uniform, when Mama was braiding her hair into two pigtails, or when Papa was squeezing her hand in his and telling her how proud he was of his brave little girl, and how he and Mama would visit as much as they could and bring her back for the holidays.

No, none of that made it feel like it'd actually  _happened—_ in fact, she didn't get that sensation until she walked out the front door towards the car behind Papa, and turned back to look up at Elsa's window one last time, finally  _seeing_ her.

And Elsa was there, then, with big, blue eyes that were full of a kind of pain that she didn't understand,  _couldn't_ understand; then, her shaking hands drew the curtains closed, and she was gone again.

_It's time to go, sweetheart._

She barely heard Papa's voice—and how could she, when her lip was trembling, and her vision was full of the tears she'd been holding back for days?—but she turned away from the window again, her head bowed, and followed him anyway.

She still didn't understand.


	27. Scene 27

**Scene 27: Elsa, now**

_He's leaving her._

"I'm going back."

She stares back at him blankly, because it's the first thing he's said to her after not answering her texts, or calls, or emails in two weeks. She doesn't understand the words coming out of his mouth and the hard expression on his face, but she's  _especially_ startled by the way his lips don't even move when he can see the confusion in her eyes.

"What?" she asks. Maybe she heard him wrong.

He rolls his shoulders back, and she realises that he's still only just a few paces inside past the door to the room but still  _dangerously_ close to it, as if he's going out again at any moment.

"I'm going back. To the Southern Isles," he says, and she wonders if he thought that adding the "to the Southern Isles" on the end was supposed to  _clarify_ things somehow.

Her jaw is slack, but every other muscle in her body is taut with a familiar tension.

"Why?"

He crosses his arms in a strange way, as if this is a  _business_ meeting—as if he hardly knows her.

(But he does, she thinks—actually, he knows  _too much.)_

"The old man is finally going to meet his maker,"he replies, his lip curling slightly, "and I need to help my brothers clean up his mess."

She swallows. "And when—when are you coming back?"

His eyes tighten—emeralds she knows, emeralds she  _loves_ —and they're horrible.

"I'm not."

Her chest clenches. "What do you mean?" she asks.

(Maybe she heard him wrong,  _again_.)

"I meant what I said," he replies simply, and his look is unreadable. "Whatever's left for me to inherit, it's not here, Elsa. It's back home."

An ache hits her chest before working its way down to her stomach, and there it sits, and  _twists,_ and makes her start to feel sick.

"What about—what about  _us?"_ she asks, and the wild  _thrumming_  of her pulse in her wrists and neck nearly makes her gag, because she means—

What about  _me?_

"Elsa," he begins, and there's a patience in his voice that's awful, that's  _infuriating_ in the same way his smirk was all those months ago in the library, "this has to stop."

He pauses, and looks at her pointedly."You know that."

Her mouth is dry and her throat suddenly feels sore, as if it's anticipating screams of anguish, hours of sobbing and wailing; the effect is that her voice cracks when she speaks again, reedy and hoarse.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He takes a step towards her, and she takes one back, her hand clutching her dress.

"Elsa," he says, warningly—like he can see the storm coming, but she can't—and she shakes when she hears her name on his lips, because, just like everything else that spills out of them, it suddenly sounds like a  _lie._

"Is this because I didn't go through with the buyout?" she asks,  _snarls_. "Is this because you don't need me anymore, now that you can't  _use_ me to get back at your brothers, to cheat them out of their inheritance, to spite your  _dying_ father—"

**"Elsa."**

He's severer now, his countenance darkened slightly, though not matching hers. It's  _good_ to see that look, she thinks, because he's been far too relaxed about the ridiculous things he's been saying, and he hasn't even really explained himself, not really, not  _adequately._

Then, to her surprise, his look softens, and the mask slips.

"This isn't good for us," he tells her quietly, "it isn't good for  _either_ of us, anymore."

She doesn't want to believe that gentle tone, the gravity of it, the  _truth_ in his words—and she  _can't,_ because—

"Don't leave me alone, Hans," she says suddenly, and she can hear herself falling apart. " _Please_  don't leave me alone."

His hand reaches up for a moment, and there's a flicker of hope that  _burns_ in her throat at the sight, her eyes meeting his, wide and frightened.

Then, it falls to his side again, resigned, and the  _twisting_ in her stomach returns full-force, nearly making her double over.

"Goodbye, Elsa," he says, and stares at her with something like regret. "I'm sorry."

And then he opens the door, walks out of it, closes it again—and her eyes follow him down the sidewalk to the driveway towards his car, because this scene feels familiar, and she knows how it ends.

At least, she thought she did, but—

He doesn't look back at her.


	28. Scene 28

**Scene 28: Anna, now**

_She doesn't want to forgive her._

"Maybe you should talk to her."

Her brow creases at the suggestion, and her answer is immediate.

"No."

He sighs, and the sound grates on her nerves more than usual—probably because he's been more insistent on this particular topic than others, and it's the one thing she  _doesn't_ want to think, much less  _talk_ about—so she snaps.

"I said  _no,_ Kristoff, okay? So just …  _drop_  it."

In fact, she thinks with a growing frown, he's practically been  _harping_ at her on this subject; considering the fact that she knows  _full well_ about what's going on, she doesn't need  _him,_ of all people, reminding her.

Because of  _course_ she's heard the rumours—hadn't everyone, by then?—the rumours that the youngest "princeling" has gone back home to the Southern Isles after the death of his father, and that he's likely staying there.

But she knows that's not the only reason he went back.

One look at the recent press photos taken of Elsa, all haggard and sallow-looking as if she hasn't slept for months, is all the evidence she needs to understand  _that._

Seeing Elsa in that way doesn't stir her sympathy—not the way it might have, once—but it also doesn't give her the  _schadenfreude_ that she desperately wants to feel, and that unsettles her, since it might mean that hanging around with Kristoff, and touching him, and kissing him, and  _letting him inside_  has made her soft, somehow.

(And she can't afford to be soft— _not_   _yet,_ she thinks, her lips set in a determined, stubborn scowl.)

"No—I'm not going to just 'drop it,' Anna, not until you  _listen."_

She seizes up at his assertive tone, as she's not used to hearing it—not unless he's  _really_ angry about something—and since this whole issue is  _hers_ and has nothing to do with  _him,_ she can't understand why he's getting so worked up over it all of a sudden. But before she can point this out to him, and tell him how  _ridiculous_ he's being about it, he starts again. This time, he's even more forceful than before, and he doesn't give her an inch.

"You don't get it, do you? How  _lucky_ you are to have any family at all?" he asks her, incredulous, his lips turned down, a deep,  _profound_ sadness stirring at the corners of them with which she's all too familiar. "I know she hurt you—hurt you  _badly_ —and you'll never be able to forget that."

He pauses, and then his fists clench, and she feels hot,  _bitter_ tears stinging at her eyes, even though she can't summon the right words to respond—no, not yet,  _always_ not yet.

"But she—she's all that you have, Anna. She's  _it._ And you need to appreciate that."

A part of her responds to his words with immediate, automatic,  _guilt_ —the part that knows his story, how he was abandoned by his parents as a child and then grew up in some shitty orphanage or other and had to rely on himself all these years, never trusting anyone else, never letting anyone else in _._

But the other part stirs with an old fire, an old  _spite_ that refuses to leave her: the part that has always resented being the  _spare,_ the one that was sent away, the one who wasn't told anything about the world and was fucked over by it, the one who was never let in.

And then she looks at him, and that fire is  _spitting_ in her gaze as she regards him, because … doesn't he see? Doesn't he  _know?_

Elsa's not the only one she has anymore.

She can't bring herself to say that, though, whether from pride or from sorrow, she's unsure—and so she walks away, and she wonders when he'll finally understand.

(And when she'll have the courage to tell him.)


	29. Scene 29

**Scene 29: Elsa, then**

_She ran away._

_Anger._

That was the only emotion that had registered in her brain when she'd done it—when she'd run away from home for the first time, not thinking, not  _caring._

The anger had been everywhere, too—in her thoughts, her dreams, her nightmares, her reality—and it had pricked at her chest whenever she'd stared at the sorrowful faces of her parents, or at the dreadfully dull purple canopy above her bed, or took the pills and the counselling that didn't really help, or listened to the  _advice_ she was suddenly getting from everyone about what she should and shouldn't do in her "fragile" mental state.

But most of all, she had been angry with  _herself—_ for closing the door, for closing it on Anna, for never telling her why she kept it shut, even when she was sent away, even after all the years since then.

Somehow, it had all manifested in that one escape, that act of incredible  _selfishness,_ and she'd felt it course through her veins like a comforting, dull pulse as she'd ordered the plane ticket in secret, and waited: waited for what seemed like  _ages_ until the day arrived and she'd stolen away in the middle of the night and hitched a cab to the airport, her heart  _thumping_ in an unusually slow way, filled with dread.

It hadn't helped that when she'd arrived there had still been  _hours_ to go before the flight, and in those hours, the quiet calm (no,  _dread_ ) that had wound its way around her heart had released—and in its stead came the familiar rush of panic and  _fear_ that made her feel sick and coarse and utterly even though she'd tried not to think about what she was doing, or the people she was hurting, those damned  _feelings_ kept coming back to haunt her.

(To  _torment_ her.)

She'd gotten so caught up in it by the time Anna arrived—screaming in her ear, hugging her, crying against her shoulder—that she'd missed her plane entirely, barely registering the fact that it had been flying away right outside the window she was staring at.

It was too late by then, anyway; too late because she had thought too much, and felt too much, and yes, even  _cried_ too much to shed another tear, to cherish Anna's concern for her, to  _appreciate_ what she had and how little her life would mean without it.

It was too late, by then, to fill the emptiness.


	30. Scene 30

**Scene 30: Anna, now**

_She feels whole again._

She feels guilty now, after sitting on what was said between her and Kristoff for the better part of two weeks—guilty because she knows he's right, and because she tried to push him away,  _again,_ even after she'd promised him that she wouldn't do that anymore.

But she's also afraid—afraid because a part of her has always been afraid of Elsa, of opening that door, of being hurt.

Now, though, Elsa is so  _fragile_ —not in the way like her parents used to say she was, and not in the way that the kids at college say she is, but in another way, a  _deeper_ way that's etched into every contour of her face, that she can see in the dark hollows under her eyes in the press photos—and the thought of trying to piece back together what's been broken between them feels like more of a  _burden_ than anything else when her life is finally starting to make some sense, and when she's feeling like she finally has a  _home_ with Kristoff.

He hasn't brought it up since the last time, because he knows her better than that; but she knows  _him,_ too, and what his silence means, and how it makes her  _feel_.

So she thinks—about Elsa, about love, about what's been lost, about what's been gained—and all the while he's holding her tightly, and she feels more tiny and  _naked_ with him than she has with anyone else in her whole life.

(And for once, she lets herself soak in that vulnerability and not utterly hate it.)

"I'll see her again, one day," she says finally when they're lying in bed, and she's looking up at the ceiling, not meeting his eyes. "I'll see Elsa, and maybe when I do, I won't be—I won't carry this  _stuff_ with me, then."

She feels so oddly inarticulate around him, especially when he's just  _staring_ at her in that curious way. But then he nods and looks up at the ceiling with her, and there's an unspoken agreement between them as he breathes through his nose, quiet but contented.

"I know."

 _And I'll be here,_ he seems to add, though no words leave his lips after that.

It seems impossible, though, even with him there, telling her she can, that he  _knows_ she can—impossible to imagine that she'll be able to look Elsa in the eye again, and then cry or something mushy like that, and they'll hug, forgive, forget.

But that's probably because something like that  _is_ impossible, really, and the most she can hope for is just that she'll be able to see her sister without screaming.

And even though it's a faraway wish now, it feels like it's getting closer to becoming reality every time that Kristoff opens the door to his apartment and smiles at her—and every time she smiles back at him, knowing, somehow—

She'll figure things out.


	31. Scene 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final official scene of Aftermath. (But there may be a bonus, extra-special one for you all waiting in the wings...!)

**Scene 31: Elsa, now**

_She's keeping the door open._

It's been three months since he left her—three months of hell in the press, with her associates, and with her own  _misery,_ ever-present—but it's also been three months for her to be alone again, to think, to  _feel_ without him there, clouding her mind,  _poisoning_ her heart.

She feels perversely  _grateful_ to him for leaving her, even in the way that he did; she can see things for what they are now, and other things for what they  _were,_ and she's only surprised that she didn't realise it sooner.

When she does, she doesn't know what to do next—and that's how she ended up here, standing in the departures lobby of the airport, staring blankly at the row of empty seats in front of her.

It's the same place she found herself in five years ago, and she wonders if she'll be able to uproot herself from that spot when she couldn't before—if she'll have the courage, this time, to leave the past in the past, and to not care what they're going to say.

There's a part of her that she's always ignored, shoved down,  _throttled_ : a part that's telling her she can, that she's  _always_ been capable of this, that she just has to stop being scared and  _let it go._

She doesn't want to believe that little voice because she never has, and she's not sure if doing so now will really make a difference after so many years of suppressing it—after so many years of pretending like it didn't even  _exist_ within her, since that made things easier to bear, somehow.

But then she thinks of Anna.

Her beaming smile when she got engaged; her tears when she was sent away; her horror when she saw them together; her bitterness when she slammed the door shut.

Contrary to what she expects, though, even this last image—the image that has haunted her for months—doesn't kill the hope inside of her.

(The hope that she'll leave now and when she comes back, she'll have the courage to tell Anna the truth, and to apologise for everything that's happened.)

And even if Anna doesn't forgive her, or understand, she'll at least be  _looking_ at her again, and she'll know, finally, that the door is open, it's  _really_ open—

And she won't ever shut it again.


	32. Bonus: Scene 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final instalment in Aftermath - bonus scene! Thank you all for your support over the course of this fic; I hope you enjoyed the crazy ride to get here as much as I did!

**Scene 32: Hans, then**

_He wanted her back._

He knew he'd find her there.

He'd learned by then that Elsa was a creature of habit, if nothing else—she liked her quiet spaces, her silence,  _lived_ in her loneliness—and that made finding her fairly easy, if nothing else.

She was at the very back of the library, and he realised that the sound of the rain beating on the roof outside must have drowned out the sound of his footsteps when she froze at the sight of him.

He expected her to snap at him, at first, just like she used to when their "encounters" had started; instead, she simply  _stared_ at him, dark circles under dark eyes, lips thin and cracked, and pale cheeks looking gaunter than usual.

Her silence was unnerving.

He took a step forward, but she only took two back—and that pattern repeated itself two or three times more before he finally had her cornered by the wall, alone, and he asked why she wasn't talking.

Her lips trembled, but she didn't answer; he asked again, trying to touch her arm, but she flinched.

She looked up at him with barely-contained spite.  _We can't do this, Hans,_ she told him, her gaze lost somewhere between bitterness and terror.  _Not after what's happened._

She swallowed.

_Not now that Anna knows._

He held back a frown at the sight of her then, so unlike the strong, opinionated, impulsive girl—no,  _woman_ —he'd come to know. This display of fear, of  _cowering_ in his presence, put him on edge.

(But he couldn't show her that.)

Instead, he told her that even though it  _felt_ wrong for them to be like that, that it hurt Anna, that it looked bad—he knew that it wasn't wrong if what they felt was  _real_ , and that what they had didn't have to end just because other people thought it should.

 _But what if_ I  _think it should end?_

He drew closer; this time, when he told her he didn't believe that, she didn't quiver.

He thought, seeing her so still, that she was accepting it—accepting  _him_ —but then those two blue daggers shot up to meet his comforting stare, and she roughly shoved him away, her bared, white teeth hissing at him in a hushed,  _violent_  whisper.

 _Well_ believe  _it, Hans,_ she spat as she strode towards him.  _Believe that I don't want this—that I never have, and now that I've hurt the only person in this whole fucking world_   _that actually still cares about me, there's no_ way  _that I'll let you come back into my life like this, like—_

He crushed his mouth to hers, and she bit his bottom lip hard enough to make him step back.

 _Stop it,_ she said, her body shaking.  _Stop it._

But all he could see was his blood smeared across her lips—those cracked, thin little things spread wide in that  _contempt_ he hadn't seen in months, but had craved all the while—and he surged forward again, ignoring the beating of her small fists against his chest, the muffled groan she let out when they barrelled to the carpeted floor below.

When he could see clearly again, he was surprised to find her above him, her hands clutching at his shirt in balled fists that pinned him to the ground, her mouth looking about ready to curse him, to  _kill_ him—but all that came out was a choking cry as she buried her face in his chest, staining his collar red.

 _I hate you,_ she said, her hands shaking.  _I hate you._

He wrapped his arms around her, and his lips brushed against her ear as he told her she didn't, really.

 _I should've never let you in,_ she whispered.  _I should've never touched you, or told you anything, or_ loved—

She stopped, looked up, and met his gaze—and he nearly gave away his surprise, his  _dismay,_ at the words she'd almost spoken.

She didn't finish the sentence, opting to kiss him again instead with all the force of a storm; he felt oddly relieved as he pushed the cardigan off her shoulders, slid his hands up her bare thighs beneath her skirt, and tangled his fingers in her white hair, because at least those things were familiar, and  _certain._

But even as she seemed to lose herself to those sensations, that brief moment of honesty all but gone from her flush features, he couldn't forget it.

(And he couldn't stop the cold from spreading over the hot  _thrum_ of his pulse under her fingers.)


End file.
